


In the Arms of Angels

by imperator_titus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AU - monsters, Blood Drinking, F/M, Food to Lovers, Vaguely Historical, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-08 12:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperator_titus/pseuds/imperator_titus
Summary: A town makes a deal with the devil in order to save itself from the beasts who hunt humans by night.





	1. A Dark Pact

**Author's Note:**

> Link to [A Million Lives: Collector’s Edition Vol. 1](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sm_XizydRPh5Vl74mdjmU60AkvRwemHg/view), a PDF version of the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-10-27, Revised: 2019-04-28

The town of Arkanis, while made of stone and secure against mortal men, was once plagued by the beasts of Hell and night. Werewolves and demons of all sorts would feed upon its citizens, wreaking havoc and painting the streets with blood. The town walls might as well have been pasture fences, keeping the humans penned in like livestock for their dark masters to pick the juiciest ones ripe for the table.

Those days had been long ago, near two centuries gone into history and almost out of the memory of men, nothing but fairy tales for naughty children. When even the holiest of their citizens, one they thought would be capable of repelling such evils, was slaughtered like a common lamb, the mayor struck a contract with what seemed like the least of the wretched lot. The death of one a year was much more suitable than the deaths of hundreds. It was certainly more palatable than being hunted through their city streets and dragged from their fields.

At first, they’d selected the useless; the workless paupers and arthritic elderly. It made sense to sacrifice those who did the least, it meant a smaller hole in society’s tightly wound clockwork. Over time they either were rid of such people or they found ways to not be chosen. Thus it became more difficult to choose the sacrificial lamb to be offered up to the guardian monster on the edge of their claimed lands.

The vampire’s castle loomed on a craggy mountain face above a forest of twisted trees with thick undergrowth. No one dared to approach it for fear of what moved within, both the stone walls and the dark wood. While the evils that once terrorized them were gone, no one was fully convinced that they didn’t just lurk in the shadows waiting for an inattentive traveller to pass by, just a luckless victim of circumstance. There was no possible way, at least to their small and fragile minds, that a creature so powerful could survive on one human’s blood for a whole year, it must have found prey elsewhere, probably venturing out to the surrounding lands to feed on those too scared to strike a deal.

Armitage found himself at the edge of the forest, a thin path cut between the trees by God knew what or how. He turned one last time to look over his shoulder at the dark smudge on the horizon that was once his home. Now, as the mayor’s bastard, his only use had been reduced to sacrifice. His mother, who once worked in the mayoral palace’s kitchens, had also been sent away down this very path when the boy had no more ‘use’ of her. He didn’t have any memory of her, but his father made it clear that he was too much like her to be loved. He wasn’t even allowed to bear his father’s name.

In the moonlight his red hair and pale skin practically glowed against the black shadows of the forest, a ghostly apparition floating along the path on its way to certain doom. He hiked his way by the uneven trail that switchbacked up the mountain face, the orange lights of torches in the castle windows the only indication that there was a building instead of just another spike of rock attempting to pierce the sky. When he approached the gate the portcullis was raised, though he heard no guard, and just on the other side was a blue orb of light bobbing slightly. Armitage took a deep breath, puffing his chest in courage and pride, and stepped forward.

The orb swirled with increasing speed as he came closer until finally, it started weaving its way further into the castle, bidding him to follow. It took him past portraits of men and women long dead, objects of antiquity and far away places. The windows thrice his height were framed by drapes of rich purples and dark reds, tied with glittering gold ropes. Gleaming suits of armour, the skeletons and skulls of beasts natural and grotesque. Crystal chandeliers, beautiful rugs and tapestries, cabinets tastefully filled with curiosities and mementoes. Paintings both pastoral, tranquil, and grim, menacing. They climbed a spiral staircase that appeared to stretch forever into the sky, threatening to pierce heaven itself.

As they drew deeper into the castle the air felt colder, darker. The immaculate surfaces turned dusty and cobwebbed as if whatever mechanizations that maintained the home didn’t dare to come this deep. Even in his thick doublet and cloak, Armitage still couldn’t help but shiver as his skin was chilled. A pair of heavy tall doors made of oak, carved with some image he assumed to be infernal but too poorly lit to discern, creaked open at their approach, and the blue wisp dissipated, leaving the sacrifice to enter on his own.

The chamber was the largest he’d ever seen, rivalling even the great church of the capital that he’d visited once with his father. The high ceiling dripped chandeliers and banners like a cave’s stalactites, the walls to the left and right made of mostly floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the bright white moonlight. Columns of granite supported the roof, breaking the room up into three distinct strips of the marble floor, the centre of which was swathed in a black rug terminating at a dais. The dais served as a platform for an astounding statue of white marble, a pair of winged angels in a desperate embrace. Cradled in their intertwined arms was a dark object, a red cloth like a fountain of blood ribboning down. Armitage approached and as he drew closer he saw a hand, thin, pale, and tipped with claws, limply hanging among the cloth.

“I thought I ordered you to not bother me.” The voice sent a shiver up his long spine, spiteful and bored at the same time. With little effort it filled the entire room, echoing off the walls.

“I am from Arkanis.” They were all the words Armitage could manage with what little strength he had left in his spirit. The hand lifted, flicking its fingers dismissively.

“Go.”

“What?”

“ _Go back_. I have no need of you.”

Armitage hesitated. “What about the agreement?”

“It stands. Just leave.”

He had no interest left in the town, no one had fought for him to stay or was particularly kind to him. However, he did not wish to be sent back only to have his throat ripped out by some other beast all because he left.

Apparently, he spent too much time thinking. “ _Go_!”

Armitage didn’t know how it happened but he found himself on the castle side of the portcullis, his mind foggy and pained.

On his way back through the forest, he felt eyes follow him, but he passed unmolested. It gave him another opportunity to weigh his choices. He could just go to another town, his father could live believing him dead, but chief among his thoughts was that no one seemed to find it pertinent that the vampire was a woman. Legends always spoke of powerful men, their most sought-after prey virginal young women. Maybe his father knew, a secret passed down through generations of Arkanis mayors, and thus maybe he thought it made Armitage the perfect sacrifice.

Armitage wandered the streets of what was once his home, a place that felt as welcoming as a dragon’s lair. Startled eyes followed him, not much different than the ones in the forest, but these eyes had faces and names and so he didn’t fear them. The failed sacrifice entered the mayoral palace by way of the kitchens; a copper pot was dropped on the floor when the staff saw him, but with only the bare minimum of energy left in his body, Armitage paid them no attention as he splashed water on his face to cool him and he poured himself a mug of beer from the servants’ barrel. No one spoke, the room had turned eerily silent as he stood there, draining the drink dry to sate his thirst and muffle the thoughts in his brain. Eventually, he walked into the main hall where he knew his father would be at this hour.

“What in the bloody hells are you doing here?” Brendol rose from the high table, the eyes of his many guests either on him or the returned bastard son. The redhead kept his head high, refusing to seek his father’s favour after his death was used as hopeful appeasement. The weak alcohol in his blood only fueled the fire in his heart.

“She sent me away.” The rush of muttering filled the room. Maybe Brendol had decided to throw a feast to celebrate the loss of the embarrassing reminder of his poor taste and judgment. It wouldn’t surprise his son in the least.

“The wicked creature must have realized you would be a disgusting meal with bastard’s blood through your veins. Now what will we do? Choose some other poor soul? Perish the thought.” Armitage didn’t stay around to be insulted further, he simply walked out. Shouting followed him out the door, but no one dared to stop him.

His room had already been stripped of what little personal items he’d been in possession of, reduced to a simple bed and dresser. Exhausted from all of the walking and the crash of adrenaline, he laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until sleep found him swiftly.

In the bright light of morning, he was awoken by his father’s hands around his throat. Armitage scrabbled, his fingernails digging into Brendol’s wrists and clawing at the man’s blustering face. “You embarrassment! You couldn’t even do this one thing! You couldn’t just die!”

There was a fight. The young man managed to throw his father off of him and while the mayor regained his bearings after being hurled to the floor, Armitage gasped for breath. The excitement meant that he would not allow himself to be taken by surprise again, so when Brendol made to attack his son again, the redhead kicked him hard in his soft stomach. Armitage jumped to his feet and took his father by his tunic collar and pushed him against the wall. In a nearly inaudible volume, he growled, "you will be rid of me, father, but not in the way you intended.”

Armitage mustered all of his strength and slammed Brendol against the wall again. And again and again. The stone wall was painted red with blood and slowly the floor too as the man’s body laid still to turn cold on the bare rock. Armitage wiped the blood from his face and took a moment to calm his breathing. With nothing to take with him, the young man ran from the palace. With his red hair, he would’ve been easy to hunt in the neighbouring towns, so he went to the only place he could think of where no one would dare follow.

As he made his way through Arkanis on the most direct path possible, Armitage tried to not look too suspicious as his long legs worked hard to move him quickly. Thankfully he still had his cloak and so he pulled the hood tight over his head, hopefully giving him some leeway to not stand out so easily. Every glance in his direction made his blood turn cold, but it wasn’t likely that townsfolk peddling roof thatch knew what he’d done; not even the few guardsmen he passed looked particularly alert or worried. Armitage wondered how long it would take for news of Brendol Hux’s murder to spread. He wondered how long it would take for them to know it had been him, the Bastard of Arkanis.

Not as long as it would take for him to return to the vampire’s castle.


	2. Eat and Be Eaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-10-28, Revised: 2019-04-28

When Armitage arrived at the castle portcullis, out of breath and drenched in sweat, he found the place sealed up. With nowhere else to go, he decided he’d at least slam his fist against the wooden slats, hoping whatever unnatural presence that had led him through the castle the night before would return. The blue flame appeared from around a corner and floated up to the gate, erupting in a flash brighter than the sun that temporarily blinded the fugitive redhead. Upon opening his eyes again Armitage found himself faced with a young man of translucent blue that shimmered in the rays of sunlight.

“What may I help you with, sir?” The man’s hands were clasped neatly in front of him, his hair was perfectly swept from one side across his scalp in an unmoving helmet of ethereal hair. Just a few inches shorter than Armitage he had to lift his chin slightly for their eyes to meet directly.

“I wish to enter the castle.” The man tilted his head to the side, his clothes surprisingly shifting as if they had substance.

“Master has not requested your presence.”

“I do not wish to see her, I simply wish to be on that side of the gate.” Armitage pointed a finger to where the otherworldly man stood just above the dirt surface.

“Whatever for, sir?” Armitage wasn’t sure if he liked being called ‘sir’ by this apparition but he wasn’t about to argue while he was still on the human side of the portcullis.

“If I am not behind those walls, my life will surely be in danger. I would rather be a powerful beast’s meal than the victim of man’s revenge. Especially when that beast has shown me more humanity than any mortal being.” The young ghost blinked several times before lowering his eyes, appearing to debate with himself.

“Perhaps Master would not mind,” he whispered to himself, but the redhead had trained his ear to be keen from years of listening at doors and eaves. The lattice lifted itself, allowing Armitage through, and then lowered back down into the earth with a confident _thud._

“I almost hate to inquire,” the corporeal man started, giving the castle and its grounds a discerning look now that he could properly see it, “but is this place actually... _suitable_ for humans?”

“Master has asked for all castle activities to be maintained even without the presence of mortals. This means the livestock, orchards, gardens, and greenhouse have been kept operational and healthy.” The young man indicated for Armitage to follow him down a flagstone path that led around the castle to the back where all of the mentioned assets could be spied. Behind a pasture fence, he could see a horse, larger and blacker than any animal he’d ever seen, grazing alongside some lazy sheep and cows. Fading into the distance were orderly rows of trees and vines. The inside of the protective walls seemed to separate it from the harsh environment of the rocky uninhabitable mountain that cradled the castle in its spires. The grass here was verdant and healthy, the trees neither stunted nor weathered.

“What is your master’s name?” As much as he didn’t want to think it, he was most likely going to live the rest of his life in this tranquil bubble. He might as well learn the name of its owner.

“Duchess Aneirin Lucasta Pritchard, the First of Her Name, Loyal Servant of the Corsairan King, the Protector of Finndale, the Healer of the Undead and Damned.”

“Quite the title. And what is your name?”

The young man’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Dopheld Mitaka, sir.”

“My name is Armitage and I am no ‘sir.’ I haven’t even been given the dignity of a proper name.” His eyes swept over the surroundings and he decided to investigate the greenhouse first. His host followed. “So what exactly are you?”

“I was once a thrall and when my body perished 87 years ago my spirit remained bound to the castle and Master to serve as her herald, groundskeeper, groom, and anything she might need of me.” The greenhouse door opened right as they arrived and Armitage stepped inside. It felt larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. There were exotic plants he’d never seen or heard of receiving specialized care with interweaving tubes delivering water in fine mists, artificial suns hanging at specific heights and burning at different brightnesses.

“What is a thrall, then?” Dopheld continued to follow him and speak as he wound his way through the rows of tables and raised beds.

“Master fed upon me regularly during my mortal life and I became bound to her will. I carried out services for her that she could not perform due to her unique appearance.”

Armitage stopped in front of a brightly coloured flower, considering how he might have never seen such a thing in his life had he not come there. Even his wealthy ‘worldly’ father never saw these things. He scoffed, knowing now the man never would and thus the son had won, in some strange small way. Then the ghost’s words sank in. “What is it like?”

“It?”

“Being their… _food_.”

Dopheld took a moment to consider his words carefully. “I imagine it is different, being drained dry and being just drank from just enough.”

“The start is the same, I would assume.”

“From what I’ve seen, not particularly. They don’t put as much care into when they don’t intend for their victim to live.” Armitage hummed his agreement. “Of course, Master does choose to be more comforting to the ones who were just victims of circumstance, ones with lighter souls.”

“Oh? Monsters are capable of mercy?”

“They are not all monsters just because they require humans for their diet.” Armitage moved on to some other plants, admiring their blooms and fruits. “There were other thralls, making it so she did not need to bleed people dry to sustain her life, but as time passed they perished from the natural ends of their lives and the people Arkanis sent were less savoury of character.”

“Yes, I remember my father lamenting that ‘death by vampire’ had unfortunately lowered the rate of criminal acts and the jails were empty more oft than not.” He stopped in front of a purple bloom that gave off a sickly sweet scent which he knew to be nightshade, a plant he’d once intended to poison his father with. “If all her thralls have died, why are you the only ghost haunting her halls?”

“I was closer to Master than the others. I did not come from Arkanis but the city of Coruscant. There I was the fifth son of a wealthy merchant family, doomed to obscurity. She found me near death on a distant battlefield, having attempted to make a name for myself as a knight’s squire.” Even though he had no physical being, Dopheld stroked a shimmering thumb along the petals of a red rose, expression wistful. “She healed me with her magic and I swore my loyalty to her in exchange for saving my life. I watched as she drank the blood of both fallen comrades and enemies, choosing to sate her thirst on those who could no longer feel pain.”

“A merciful creature indeed.” His tour of the greenhouse finished, Armitage exited it to roam between the rows of the vegetable garden, stopping when he found a ripe one that he favoured the taste of, brushing the dirt from them on his trousers. “So she was closer to you because she saved your life?”

“Yes, and we shared a more intimate relationship.”

Armitage spun on his heel to face the castle keeper. “You _bed_ a vampire?”

Dopheld was nonplussed. “It’s a lonely existence, I imagine. It was quite enjoyable, very passionate, and I think they enjoy the warmth. Much like a snake on a hot rock.”

The redhead twitched with distaste before moving on, stopping at some berry bushes to pluck and pop the sweet nuggets into his mouth. “I suppose I do not know much about them.”

“They are very mysterious from afar. Fear breeds conspiracy and inflations of both truth and false assumptions. For instance, she is no more susceptible to silver than any other living thing. Other than she possesses inhuman healing abilities.”

“I’m not going to try to kill her, you know.”

“I am aware.”

“I am not in the business of killing my host when I am undoubtedly hunted outside these walls.”

“It would be very foolish.”

Armitage proceeded to approach the pasture fence where the massive horse, unnaturally large in fact, was grazing. He admired it and when it lifted its head he tentatively stroked down its face and neck. “It would not be so horrible.”

“To what are you referencing, Armitage?” The pale blue shimmer hadn’t failed to stand by his side the entire time, his hands primly clasped and always standing at attention.

“Having to live out your days here. It is not as grim and dark as I would imagine it, living under the shadow of a vampire.”

“It was enjoyable, when the castle was full of life.” Armitage sensed the melancholy in the man’s voice.

“Why is it so quiet and lifeless now?”

“I am not sure.”

“Why did she send me away?”

“She has sent the last ten away.”

Armitage dug through the memories of his last ten years of living. “They never returned to Arkanis.”

“Perhaps they perished in the forest. Or made their way to new towns to seek a better life. But no human has lived in this castle for fifty years.”

“A lonely existence indeed,” Armitage said more to himself than his guide. He decided he’d have time to investigate the botanical garden at another time, choosing to discover more of the castle instead. “How is it, being a ghost?”

“There are things I miss, others I do not. In the end, it is satisfactory.” Dopheld led him through the winding underbelly of the castle to show him the larder and kitchens, cellars full of barrels and carefully preserved meats and cheeses. Armitage could have almost anything he wanted and things he’d never dreamed of.

“The fear of death is, I imagine, quite the burden to be rid of.” Armitage poured himself a drink from a bottle at random into a crystal glass he found in a storage room. He hummed his satisfaction. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all, living his life trapped there; it was already shaping up to be better than the life he had.

“Yes.” Armitage wandered into the larder and started taking whatever he wanted. His ghostly host went off to do whatever it was he did with his unending life while the fugitive redhead filled himself. Wandering the castle was tricky, so large and winding, but he figured there’d be a way out if he just called for help.

Eventually, he found the spiral staircase and made his way up it until he came to the dusty hall where he’d almost breathed his last. Slowly he walked down it, feeling once again that encroaching chill, the nagging feeling that he would perish. Armitage found the heavy door to the chamber closed, a light shimmer over its surface. “Dopheld?”

“Yes, Armitage?”

“Christ!” Despite having summoned his presence it still startled him to be so suddenly not alone. “What has happened to the door?”

“Master knows you are in the castle and has sealed the door so you will not intrude.”

“I see.” He stared at the shimmering, having to resist the urge to touch it. “As long as I don’t wake up with teeth in my neck I can live with that.”

“Then I will show you to a room.”


	3. A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-10-29, Revised: 2019-04-29

The room he was shown to wasn’t plain by far, much larger and richer than the one Armitage had in his father’s palace; it might have been grander than his father’s, if the bastard had been allowed inside for more than a few seconds before being screamed and lashed out of the chamber. He took a moment to marvel at the space around him that would be his, supposedly from then on during his time of refuge. The canopied bed was wide enough for four of him to lie from shoulder-to-shoulder, the sheets a soft cotton and silk. All of the wood was dark and polished to a shine, the brass light fixtures as well. He learned that the castle was heated by pipes of warm water, heated by some contraption Dopheld couldn’t explain accurately or thoroughly enough for the redhead to understand, and was lit by something strange, a fire made from wire. As he walked down the halls or into rooms they would brighten and dim as he moved away, as if alive with minds of their own.

“This is not her room, is it?” He ran his hand over the surface of an old iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.

“No, it was mine. The second largest in the castle.” Dopheld delivered the fact without emotion.

“Do you not…?”

“I have no use for it. It might as well be used.” The ghostly steward stood at prim attention as Armitage sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Vampires can turn humans into new vampires, correct?” He played with the fabric of his new trousers, tucked away in some drawer from the last human resident no doubt. They were in remarkably good condition, the ghost was obviously very dutiful. It probably didn’t take long to clean a castle top to bottom when you didn’t need food, sleep, or rest and had some unnatural abilities.

“Yes, they can.”

“If she loved you, then why did she not turn you?” For once the ghost seemed uncomfortable with Armitage’s questions.

“I did not wish to be.”

The redhead scrunched up his face and laid his back down against the ornately woven comforter. “She could have done it anyway, then you would have to accept it.”

“A vampire turned against their will is feral, a mindless beast stuck in a demented animal form. She would not have wanted that for me, so she respected my wish.” Dopheld turned to a mirror, but it held no reflection of the pale blue shimmering form. “I swore my undying loyalty in light of her compassion and respect.”

“And so here you are.”

“So here I am.” The ghost turned to the corporeal guest. “What do you intend to do with your time here, Armitage?”

“I am not sure yet.” He sat back up, hands gripping each bony knee. “As long as someone might recognize me I can never walk among humans again.”

“Why is that?”

Armitage didn’t hang his head, even tilted his chin up in pride. “I killed my father, the mayor of Arkanis.”

The steward stared at him with little change in his expression. “He deserved it.”

“Very much so.”

“I cannot imagine any good father would send their child to be fed on by a supposed monster.” Armitage stood and attempted to clasp his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, but it passed right through. Dopheld’s body swirled like blue smoke in the hand’s path; he chuckled mirthfully. “It has been quite a long time since someone has attempted such an action.”

“I apologize, it did not occur to me.”

“No need, it bothers me not.” The spirit pretended to stretch out the muscles of his shoulders, maybe old habits didn’t die even when the body did. “If your father was at least kind enough to see that you could read, I would suggest the castle library. You could also make a hobby of the gardens. There is a family of horses more suitable for human riding. The-”

“Yes, yes, my life of self-imprisonment will be quite enriched, I understand.” Armitage looked out of the window, the light outside pale and silvery. “I think I have had enough adventure for one day. I will figure out how to spend my days in the morning.”

“As you wish. Good night, Armitage. If you have need of me-”

“Just call, I know.” The apparition didn’t wait to be further dismissed, he simply vanished into thin air.

Armitage climbed into bed after finding a nightshirt in the dresser; it was a little short but it served its purpose. As he did so the lights that illuminated the room flicked out much like his ethereal host and he found himself in near-complete darkness. Staring at the canopy above him, the bastard started wondering about the most curious things, like how a ghost even managed to keep all of the linens smelling fresh or everything polished. Why a solitary vampire who chose to sulk in the arms of statuary apparently carved by giants and a being without physical form found it necessary to keep an entire castle ready to be visited by a king or a very picky grandmother. He still wondered how such a powerful immortal creature could be overcome by an inexplicable melancholy so strong they would starve for years. Could vampires starve to death? Was that her intention? Questions of such nature plagued him until he found slumber, the first restful sleep of his entire life, safe behind impenetrable walls of stone and magic.

* * *

In the morning, after a sizable breakfast, Armitage decided to satisfy his curiosity about how far these walls really extended. He chose one of the smaller horses, a docile bay mare, and after cinching the saddle and adjusting the reins he set off through the rows of fruit trees. From what he knew of the mountain it made absolutely no sense for the land to extend so far, he should’ve met another rocky cliff face by then but still, the trees continued. Eventually, the orchard fell away and beyond was a wide expanse of open fields of green grass sinking down like a bowl with a small lake. It could no longer be denied that there was some magic at play to allow such splendour in an unwelcoming place.

Armitage led the mare to the water, allowing her to drink after he alighted from her back to inspect the shore. The rocky edge where he’d stopped appeared to be deep, the water dark with little vegetation; at other spots along the shore, there were sandy points and weedy shallows. Dipping his fingers into the still liquid he found it just slightly colder than the surrounding air. A large splash some feet away caught his attention, watching the ripples as they travelled outwards. He wondered what creature could be lurking, undoubtedly something hideous and destructive. Something touched his hand still dangling in the water and he shrieked in terror as he kicked himself away.

A large pale hand broke the surface, followed by another, and they both braced on the shore to lift their owner up. A woman, larger than any he’d ever seen, sat with her long legs still soaking in the water; she stared at him with intense blue eyes framed by platinum blonde hair that apparently employed some form of magic to stay free of moisture as it kept its bouncy waves. Armitage mentally remarked that she looked as if she could snap him in half and he wasn’t prepared to find out if he was right. “The Duchess has found herself a new pet.”

“I am no pet.” Years of defending himself to his father and the less forgiving citizens of Arkanis made his defiant tongue a habit hard to break. He fully expected for those large hands to reach out and strangle the life from his throat but instead, he was met with a hearty laugh. The woman leaned forward and, her prey stock-still from fear, sniffed his exposed neck. 

“No, not a pet. Not yet, anyway.” The watery woman moved away, casually sitting like a fountain statue in some rich city square. “Then what are you, if not food? She doesn’t let just anyone wander around, eating the food, riding the horses.”

“I am a… guest.” Armitage watched in abject horror as the woman snatched a small fish from the lake and swallowed it whole, still wriggling. She acted as if it were perfectly natural.

“Well then, human guest, I am Phasma, the undine of this lake.” The redhead thought about what little he knew about creatures of legend. “No, I am not about to marry you so I can have your soul. I would rather live until the end of days than have some pitiful soul.”

“I am relieved. It was enough thinking I might die by being food.” Armitage attempted to make himself look less pathetic and defensive. “So, what is your purpose here?”

“I live in this lake, of course. We have been friends for some time. I am sure a human knows the benefits of friends in high places.”

“Quite literally.” Phasma chuckled at his humorous comment.

“How do you find your new home?” She began cleaning her nails. “Dopheld runs a tight ship.”

“That he does. Not a speck of dust to be seen, though I think it all has just been moved to the upper levels.”

The undine stopped cleaning her nails to give him a critical look. “You’ve been to the upper levels and still live?”

Armitage gaped, unsure of the nature of the question and what was the best answer. He decided to go with the truth; for all he knew, undines could read minds, or she’d consult with someone who could. “Yes. I was meant as a sacrifice from Arkanis. She sent me away.”

“And yet you stayed.” She sat up more fully and he was distinctly aware of his tenuous position as a mortal. “So you’re no mere mouse who has snuck into the granary.”

“I did leave. I just… came back.”

“Why would a sacrifice come back to where it almost died? Do you have a death wish?” Phasma went back to cleaning her nails. It felt like a threat.

“I came because I specifically do not wish to die.”

“And this seemed like the best place?”

“Yes.” Armitage recounted the events that led to his second arrival at the castle.

Phasma grinned at his tale. “The Duchess appreciates a justifiable death every now and then. I have a feeling she would like you, little mouse.”

“I have a feeling she doesn’t like much of anything right now.” He watched as the undine began plucking water grass to weave together, into what he was unsure.

“Still in a mood, is she?”

“Yes! What is it about, anyway?” Armitage realized he was being a little too eager, but his curiosity won over his sense of decorum. These were monsters, after all.

“No one knows. Dopheld thinks she got bored and is simply sulking. Nothing of particular interest happened when it started, that we know of. The Duchess climbed up into the angels to watch the sunset through the stained glass and decided not to get down.” Phasma plucked more grass from the water; he realized she was making a basket. What use monsters had for baskets he couldn’t imagine. Maybe she would eat it, he wouldn’t be surprised. “I suppose if I lived for thousands of years I would be dramatic too. Not like she can run around with the common folk doing whatever she wanted.”

“She is _thousands_ of years old?” He knew vampires were long-lived but he’d somehow assumed she was more recently turned than that.

“You don’t get a title without being one of the originals.” Her voice was uninterested as she continued her work. Armitage would have been on the edge of his seat if he had one.

“She is an _original_?” Why he couldn’t believe anything that contradicted his original assumptions or why they apparently meant so much to him, he could not say. He just knew he had strong feelings.

“She is only slightly older than the Crown Prince of the Vampires, by about 200 years or so.” Phasma plopped the finished basket down on the green grass of the hill and looked at him as if they were discussing the weather or crops. “Don’t ask me how they are made, some magic or another, much like most of us.”

“Christ. I suppose I would be bored and dramatic if I had to spend thousands of years in relative solitude.” He picked up the basket to inspect it; she obviously had a lot of time to practice, the craftsmanship was impeccable and there was even a decorative edge made of thinner grass, almost like lace. “So there is a vampiric monarchy?”

“Vampires are practically the monarchs of all monsters as the most powerful and, usually, the oldest. Some things are older, but they don’t have much interest in the rest of us, they just go about doing as they please, not really bothering anyone.” The undine began weaving another basket of slightly different design from the one Armitage was twirling around in his hands.

“I wonder if other humans are aware. My town struck a deal with the Duchess some centuries ago when we were overrun with monsters.”

“It was most likely a lucky guess. Vampires are fairly rational and the Duchess is possibly one of the most compassionate, even in comparison to the Royal Family.” She distracted herself with the basket. “Vampires command a lot of respect, except from the ferals and insane. That is why they taught select humans how to be monster hunters.”

“Why would vampires teach humans how to kill them? That does not seem very logical.” A new basket was plopped on top of the one in his hands, almost aggressively.

“The Hunters do not kill vampires and other monsters unless they are deranged animals. If a human has an issue with a sane monster, the hunter goes to the nearest vampire, and a judgement is made. If the humans don’t like it, well, they have not only a monster but a vampire to face.”

“So Hunters are akin to an in-between party. Common humans want all monsters dead, Hunters only want some monsters dead.”

Phasma smirked, making a pleased noise as she worked on her third basket. “I am impressed, little mouse. What do you think of monsters now?”

Armitage chewed the inside of his cheek as he inspected the baskets again, even if he’d almost memorized their details. “Some are not as evil and hideous as I had previously thought.”

“Maybe you should be a Hunter. Or at the very least one of the Magical Folk. If you’d prefer immortality over just a few hundred years, maybe our sweet Duchess might one day rise from her blessed cradle in the Inner Sanctum.” The undine put the third and final basket in his hands before dipping her legs back into the lake. Peering over her shoulder she smiled at the redhead. “Welcome to your new home, little mouse.”

Armitage watched as she slipped back into the water. He expected some display, a show of power or grace, but none came. He stared at the baskets in his lap. “What am I supposed to do with these?”


	4. Rosemary and Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-10-29, Revised: 2019-04-29

Baskets in hand, Armitage lifted himself up onto the back of the bay mare and continued on his adventure. By then he’d lost sight of the wall that defined the edge of the castle grounds and he was unsure if he’d ever find it again. Eventually, he did come across the rock face of the mountain, something he’d almost expected to never see given the magical attribute of the property. Craning his neck he could spy holes, dark irregular blots in the grey stone that had indeterminable depth and were possibly much larger than he was able to discern, but either way Armitage decided that he didn’t want to know what lived in those caves. As he turned the horse around he reminded himself that the undine had, upon first glance, assumed he was the estate owner’s ‘pet’ and seeing as vampires, especially ones with such lofty titles, were highly respected, it was unlikely that he’d be eaten while standing inside the castle’s bounds.

Nevertheless, upon hearing the bone-chilling roar emanating from the mountain behind him and the great cacophony of impossibly large wings beating the air, Armitage urged his animal companion into a more urgent gallop.

He passed the lake, deciding it held not too many more mysteries, though from his new vantage point he did notice other creatures, seemingly normal, did gather around it and had made it their home. As he passed through the orchard he did stop to pick some ripened fruit, placing them in the deeper baskets, and allowed the horse to graze on the fallen ones. No matter how long he planned to stay, it didn’t seem as though he would ever want for much. His needs at present were rather simple: a place to sleep, food, and a lack of people wishing to see him dead. The fact that his housemates were a ghost and a vampire- or that his neighbours were a watery basket weaver, some massive bird or dragon, and who knew what else- didn’t seem to matter much compared to how, despite the unusual circumstances and uncomfortable moments, Armitage felt quite safe on this side of the castle gate.

The way he came back had been different than the way he’d left and so he had the opportunity to spy a curious thing. At first, the redhead had assumed it to be some mystical arrangement of stones, maybe even some ridiculous new monster that burrowed under the earth leaving the spikes on its back to lure unsuspecting fools, but closer examination found it to be a graveyard. Armitage once again got down from the mare to move even closer; all of the stones were in fairly well-kept condition but not even the dutiful care of an immortal ghost could stop the passage of time. Some stones simply bore a date while others were as detailed as ‘Dopheld Hollis Mitaka, b. 12 Winter 1237 Coruscant d. 28 Fall 1347 Finndale, Devoted Companion and Loyal Servant, Pride of Castle Finndale and Family Pritchard.’

“Dopheld?” Armitage noticed this time the sudden chill that alerted him to the apparition’s presence and was not as easily startled as he was the last time.

“Yes, Armitage?” The young ghost always stood so primly that the redhead was curious if ethereal beings were conscious of their posture or had backs that could hurt.

“Who all is buried inside the castle grounds?”

“These are all of the servants and… sacrifices for quite some time. Some notable servants are placed in the crypts under the castle with the Pritchard Family.” Dopheld seemed drawn to his stone, kneeling in front of it to cut away some weeds with just the brush of his shimmering blue hand.

“I have several more questions, then.” Armitage’s eyes swept over the stones, trying to find the most recent ones.

“I will do my best to answer.” The ghost did not move from his spot, instead, his voice followed the mortal as if it could be detached from his visual form.

“First, the Pritchard _Family_?”

“You are curious as to how a vampire has a family.”

Armitage brushed some dirt from a stone, attempting to decipher its text more clearly. “The undine, Phasma, she told me the Duchess was an original vampire.”

“Master was born from an original vampire line, thus she is an original vampire. Only original vampires may breed. Her grandfather was brought into existence only shortly after the father of King Frederick. Had he been the first, she would be the current King.” The ghost actually sounded a bit proud, if a ghost could puff its chest with valiant breath then the patricide would have expected to see the herald ready to lift into the air.

“I take it her family was slain and not naturally ended.”

“Yes, it is a sore subject. Even the most powerful vampires can be overcome if they are met with long enough strife. Not all humans have been tolerant at all times.” Dopheld joined him in front of a row of featureless stones in various states of weathering.

“Secondly,” the ghost tilted his head to show he was listening, “if the more ‘notable’ servants are in the crypt, why are you out here?”

“She wanted me to be in the sunshine.” If ghosts could cry, this one was undoubtedly on the verge of it. “She wished for green grass to grow and the blossoms to be carried upon the wind over me. She did not know I would become what I am now, so she wanted the best for me.”

Armitage didn’t really know what to say to such romantic notions, never having been truly exposed to them. He did, however, have a heart in his chest that suddenly wished someone would be so thoughtful about him, to care where his empty shell was placed since it would be the last place he would be seen. The redhead hadn’t realized he’d been tearing up until he felt a sharp chill on his shoulder, a translucent hand giving it what was supposed to be a comforting squeeze. Wishing to be rid of the evidence that he’d been so silly as to let tears fall from his eyes over something so stupid, he wiped his cheeks with the cuff of his shirt and moved away from the ghost’s grip.

“Lastly, my mother was sent here some time ago, would you know which of these might be hers?” Armitage turned to the apparition once he knew that he was no longer emotional and was met with a sympathetic face.

“I am so sorry, that your mother was sent here. Given your age, I know she was not enthralled… and given your unusual colouring for this region, I will assume she was as well.” The reminder of his obvious heritage was still unnerving but the fugitive moved past it as he watched the ghost move towards one stone in particular. “She is here. What was her name?”

Armitage gave as much detail as he could, which was sadly not much, and he stared with barely contained amazement as the stone was carved away by unseen forces to reveal the words he gave. At the end, Dopheld added his own flare: ‘Beloved Mother.’ The heart that still pumped blood through a slowly decaying body clenched in the little mouse’s chest and Armitage had to practically flee the graveyard, forgetting horse and baskets in his undeniable need to run to his room to bury his face in a pillow and sob uncontrollably. He hadn’t thought about his mother in years, or at least in the capacity that he missed something that he never truly knew.

Sometime later, when he’d gotten over himself, Armitage made his way back down to the kitchen to make something to eat. He was not entirely surprised to see the basket of apples sitting on one of the tables and he picked one up to sate his immediate hunger while he prepared something more satisfying. Stirring a pot over the fire, his back became cold. “I did not mean to upset you, Armitage.”

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

“I understand.” Armitage felt the chill dissipate, signalling the spirit’s departure. Could ghosts have their feelings hurt? He did seem to be expressive.

“Dopheld?” The redhead couldn’t believe he was actually feeling a bit guilty, but the nonhuman residents of Castle Finndale had been the kindest sentient beings he’d ever met. He felt the chill return but he did not turn his face from his work. “I appreciate what you have done.”

“My mother passed shortly after my birth, I know what it is like to be without one, even if the circumstances of our birth were not the same.” It was the most sincerely anyone had related to the unfortunate bastard. “It does not become any easier but sometimes you will forget.”

“I suppose it would be prudent of me to heed the advice of those who have lived much longer than me.” Armitage transferred some of the pot’s contents into a bowl and sat down at a nearby table to wait for it to cool.

Dopheld shrugged his blue shoulders. “Immortals have terrible memories. Master lived through countless wars and she could not tell you who won them. However, she and the other families decided long ago it would be prudent to write down the happenings of their lands, collect the literature and stories of surrounding peoples. It has resulted in quite the library here, rivalling that of Alexandria.”

“I will have to see it. Sounds to me I will not run out of reading materials.” Armitage pointed to the spot in front of him, for a moment forgetting his companion’s lack of physical form, but to his surprise, the ghost sat down as if he was solid. “You lived almost 110 years?”

“Oh, yes. I believe it was partially a magical influence, from being in the castle and close to the Master, but I am sure it was mostly due to her healing abilities. My body did not have many opportunities to degrade, but time eventually decided it was the end for me.” The redhead found it curious that the man would speak so freely and almost excitedly about his death. Perhaps he was just happy to have someone new to talk to after so long.

“There had been a few plagues in your time.”

“I caught one, but Master had me right as rain as soon as I so much as coughed.”

Armitage moved bits of his stew around with his spoon. “I could have used her when I was younger.”

“I would not be surprised if your people did not trust the Magical Folk, but there is a witch in the Arkanis lands. Rose, I believe. In the winter you can see her cottage’s smoke rise above the forest.”

“I did not hear tales of witches in these parts. I suppose there are a great many things I am unaware of in my home.” The land was still his home, but his place of residence had certainly changed. He was hoping that was for the better. At least he was permanently rid of his father.

“There is any number of resources for you to discover more, maps and such. Of course, we also host the celebrations for the solstices and equinoxes, so you will at least become acquainted with the more sociable creatures and folk in these parts.”

Armitage laughed under his breath. “What manner of demon and damned will I find myself in the company of on such festive days?”

“The ill-fated and unfortunate are not as cold and ugly as you think them to be, Armitage.” Dopheld seemed almost offended behind his rigid posture and politeness.

“I apologize, I am just finding it hard to believe I will be in the same room as ghouls and werebeasts.” He tested a spoonful of his meal and feeling it suitably cool he took a bite. Not bad for having just randomly found things in the pantry and larder and throwing them into a pot. It would be embarrassing but he would have to ask the ghost to teach him some more domestic activities than he was currently privy to.

“The ghouls are, admittedly and unfortunately, as hideous as you might think, but the few that are not mindless shamblers are quite humorous. And we are in fact home to quite a few werebeasts.” Shimmering eyes followed the spoon from bowl to Armitage’s Cupid’s bow lips. “You should have added rosemary.”

“Damn, you’re right.” The two laughed a little harder than the comment necessitated, but neither seemed to mind.


	5. A Name for Thee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda... weird. I'm sorry. Happy Halloween, though!  
> Originally Posted: 2018-11-01, Revised: 2019-04-29

To say the castle contained a library was a bit of an understatement; it was more like the two buildings had once been separate and then grew into one another through a series of corridors and elevated stone walkways complete with stained glass walls that glowed a warm orange when the sun was shining. For the most part, they depicted common things, suns and symbols that had no meaning to him, but they were nonetheless beautiful when light struck them. The only proper library Armitage had seen was when he’d visited the city of Coruscant with his father on some important trip, but the few cases of degrading tomes and faded scrolls would have barely made up a small corner of one floor of the castle’s collection.

He took some time to marvel at the vast tower, its spire so high that Armitage got a crick in his neck trying and failing to see the top. Almost every inch of the walls had a bookcase to the ceiling and where they lacked books they made up for in a veritable museum of ancient relics, morbid memorabilia, and fine artworks. Somehow it was both eclectic and fairly planned out, no apparent rhyme or reason but the thick book with its gold linked spine resting on a lectern at the centre of the tower gave some method to the madness. Its height rivalled the length of his arm from elbow to fingertips and even his young eyes found a need for one of the lenses with their brass handles stashed in the lectern along with an orderly collection of candles and tinderboxes. The morning sun was still shining brightly and there was a healthy amount of windows, so Armitage walked the stacks empty-handed, the soft sound of his heels hitting the stone floors his only company.

Many of the tablets and scrolls, probably made long before even humans engineered their own written languages, still sat on display in glittering curios, but the directory had made note of where they had been rewritten into a medium suitable for handling. He came to realize that the catalogue of the library’s contents was not so large only for the sheer volume of items but also to properly track written works as they were translated over and over with the shifting changes of language. As such a long-lived creature, Armitage imagined that the language of the region would not have seemed to the castle’s master’s different from any given moment to the next, but when he moved from book to book he found he could not make heads or tails of even the writing that used the same alphabet. At least when a tablet was carved with pictograms or more angular letters he could dismiss it as an entirely different language, but for most of the items on the first floor he was faced with words he knew were related in some way to the ones he would use himself, they just didn’t make sense.

From behind glass and hanging from the ceilings the long-gone eyes of animals, possibly some people if he stared long enough, followed him as he meandered. Their dark sockets didn’t appear as lifeless as Armitage would like for comfort and he swore some of them emitted a low growl as he passed. Stuffed trophies were so perfectly preserved they seemed frozen in time, just waiting for the spell to break so they could pounce. The fugitive stood in front of paintings with ornate frames and for some Armitage wondered how accurately history was depicted; in one he could recognize the centre of Coruscant, looking almost as small as Arkanis. There were portraits of people richly dressed and powerfully poised, the little nameplates underneath written in a language he didn’t understand. Nothing he’d ever seen was as beautifully and skillfully made as the artworks in the castle, their creators ahead of their time. Maybe some magic was at work or more simply the extended life of the cursed and damned allowed more time to perfect their craft.

Armitage was on the third of thirteen floors when he managed to find a book suitable for reading. It appeared to be a journal, meticulously kept and even sketched in to provide extra detail. The ink was spun into delicate regular loops, the hand of someone who wrote a great deal with more devotion than the monk scribes and intended on the message being more permanent than a mere missive to be forgotten or thrown into the fire.

_Father has allowed a sky serpent to roost in our castle’s cliffs, to protect both it and the surrounding people. I, of course, feel for the villagers, I can only imagine how terrifying it would be to be mortal and see that great shape block out the sun, its fiery breath roasting their livestock and neighbours. However, I also know the plight of this particular creature and I do not believe it would be just for the Hunters and ourselves to slay it. So he shall live in the barriers of our home and so he can do no harm but to what livestock he requires, much like myself. Not that the humans are but mere cattle to me, to us, but as the lioness must bring down the gazelle we too must nourish our bodies with the blood of the less powerful, the less fortunate. Should gods exist I know that my name would be whispered vehemently into their ears and when my time comes I will not be welcomed into the arms of angels. Unlike some brethren I do not take this to mean I should allow myself to become a violent unconscious beast, I take no pleasure in the suffering of others, and instead, despite the guarantee of my soul’s eternal damnation, I strive to put into the world as little pain as possible and hope to remove it where I am able._

While Armitage did find the inner monologue of an immortal being intriguing, he was more immediately concerned with the firsthand accounts of historical wars, the great conflicts of the world. From what Dopheld had said of her, he was not surprised to know she was a stalker of battles and moving armies, drinking the blood of the fallen so as to fulfill her survival needs. It also appeared that pulling half-dead soldiers from the field was not a one-time occurrence; there was quite the roster of thralls whose previous occupations included ‘footman’ or ‘archer.’ Armitage did find it curious that most of her… _meals_ were male. Was it their size? Did they smell more appetizing? He would think women, being generally softer and more pleasant-smelling than their male counterparts, would make better food; they would be weaker, for one, and didn’t all of the legends speak of vampires drinking the blood of virgin ladies? Perhaps they saw something humans could not see in themselves, maybe his assumptions about the sexes were incorrect in some fundamental way that society had blinded him to. Perhaps the Duchess simply picked more men than women because she was attracted to them sexually, he knew at least one that had been a regular visitor to her bed. There were a handful of women who had a special place in her mind and words, but they were few and far between, someone could easily have overlooked them.

It did allow his mind to ruminate on a subject other than his own survival while he ate his midday meal. In the recesses of his memory, he tried to think of all the people sent to the castle to be sacrificed for the past decade, as Dopheld had recalled the Duchess’ sombre mood to have lasted so far. A fair few of them were women, women Armitage had seen around the mayoral estate, and given that the vampire had less voluntary interest in women, perhaps she was unsatis-

“Bastard.” With a little more force than necessary, the redhead put his spoon down on the table in the kitchen. A kitchen not unlike the one his mother had worked in, though a good deal larger. A kitchen not too unlike the one those young girls had been working in until they were sent to the castle he now occupied.

“Is something wrong, Armitage?” The chill of the ghostly steward had been masked by the fire burning in the centre of the room, but this time the sudden appearance hadn’t bothered the mortal as much as it normally did.

“Everything is quite fine, considering my father is dead.”

Dopheld’s eyes slid away from the seething redhead and he tilted his head to the side in thought. “I am not entirely sure I know what has brought on this sudden revisitation if the subject.”

“I was attempting to discover the reason for your master’s poor mood and instead I have realized that my father had been using her to dispose of his mistakes.” The last, but not the latest, of which had been Armitage himself and it had cost his father his life. “How poetic.”

“I believe Master is lonely, though she has her fair number of companions and kindred spirits; in some cases spirits is a more apt choice of descriptor than any.”

Armitage waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, but I doubt many of those want to lie naked on a bed of furs, bathing in moonlight and making midnight swims.”

If a ghost could blush, Dopheld would be red instead of blue. “You have been reading her journals.”

“You suggested I pick up reading.” His smug look was met with one of defeat.

“I had suggested that, yes.” The spirit straightened his nonexistent spine. “She cannot very well be convinced to go out looking for a new… companion, even if it is best for her.”

“Then I suppose we will have to do what you have been doing for ten years: wait. Either Arkanis will eventually send some handsome man-”

“They sent you and she sent you away.”

Armitage had been in the middle of standing up, but he paused with his hands braced on the table. His eyebrows drew down. “Are you implying-”

The ghost gaped. “I apologize, I just- You are- Master would- Oh dear Lord.”

“It does not make a difference. It is just a matter of time. Or perhaps we will be the first witnesses to a vampire suicide by starvation.” He began clearing his plate but it was quickly taken care of by apologetic use of otherworldly magic. “Besides, with the door sealed, it is not as if I can go knock a man unconscious and drag him in there. We cannot hold her fangs to someone’s throat.”

“That is very true.” Armitage made to leave the kitchen. “Thank you, Armitage.”

The redhead looked over his shoulder. “Whatever for?”

“Putting more thought into this than what is required of you. I do wish she would return to her normal self.” Armitage nodded his understanding and the blue shimmer faded as he went to do whatever it was that spirits did.

The fugitive went out into the botanical garden, carefully trimming flowers and greens to make a beautiful bouquet which he brought to his mother’s gravestone. It had only been 25 years since she’d been sent through the Haunted Forest to her certain doom, all for the unfortunate fate of being a wicked man’s powerless plaything, but her son could tell clearly that the stone that stood there now was much newer and more ornate than its neighbours. As he placed the flowers before it, he inwardly remarked on how he’d never expected an apparition to have such kindness in their heart long turned to dust. Now the stone was carved with all manner of flowers and greenery, not too unlike the ones he’d picked, and Dopheld had chosen a more flourishing script for the words.

‘Moira Aventhal d. 72 Summer 1409’

“I suppose I have a last name now.” Armitage wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was speaking. Himself? Likely, but he could have simply thought the words. His deceased mother? Likely, but despite the things he’d seen recently he was still unsure if that meant anything.

He tried repeating his name over and over to himself in his head. _Armitage Aventhal. Aventhal. Armitage. Aventhal Armitage. Armitage Armitage Armitage Aventhal._ People had middle names, didn’t they? Royalty had many names. “Dopheld.”

“Yes, Armitage?” The ghost gave their surroundings a confused glance, as apparently, the fugitive had decided to have this conversation huddled behind a bronze statue of two water spirits playing.

“Why is your middle name Hollis?”

“It was my father’s middle name. My eldest brother received his first name, as was the tradition.” The blue ghost was on the edge of bringing further attention to his living companion’s mental state, somewhere between ‘you need a lie down’ and ‘maybe I should call Rose.’

Armitage shook his head vehemently. “That won’t do.”

“How so?”

“Because I hate my father. Pick something else.”

“You want me to… change my name?”

The redhead waved his corporeal hand dismissively. “Of course not, it is a lovely name and you have been dead for some time, I suspect it is well past the time when one changes their name.”

“You wish to change _your_ name?”

“How are you just now realizing that?”

Dopheld squared his shoulders. “Frankly, I feel as if we are having half of the conversation you believe us to be having. Also-”

“Also?” Armitage made to grab the other’s shoulders but they merely turned into tendrils of blue smoke where his hands disrupted the spirit’s limited cohesiveness. Pale green eyes were intense in the afternoon light shining through the nearest library window.  
“Armitage is a nice name.”

The owner of said name scowled and released his grip before twirling away in a huff. “Says who?”

“I do.” The currently breathing human made a sound of disgust. “As does Master.”

The redhead turned on his heel in a near perfect 180 degrees of fluid motion. “How do you know?”

“She said so, before she sealed the door.” Dopheld was taken by the shoulders again, reacting with what little response was instilled in his conscious mind from when he had a body. Armitage would have been terrifying with that look in his eyes if the object of their intensity was not already deceased. “I told her you were seeking asylum in the castle. She said ‘that is not a name I have heard before. How exciting. Let him stay. If you find him kind, do not be shy.’”

“And should I have been unkind?” Flashes of blood, his blood, redder than his hair, splashed on the stone walls and the floors worn smooth. His skin pale as marble, glowing in the moonlight, his delicate neck ripped open. An end to suffering. His or hers he was unsure.

“Master did not specify.” Armitage let out the breath he’d been unknowingly holding. “If I may?”

“You may.”

“I believe you need rest. Perhaps your… research has left you more exhausted than you are aware.” Dopheld watched as the fugitive slowly came to accept what was being said. “You look paler than normal.”

“I will lie down.”

“I believe that would be best.” Whether he was privy to it or not, eyes followed the man as he made his way back to the bedroom with its big bed, soft sheets, and rich furniture. He never was allowed to keep personal items, so Armitage was unsure as to why it made him sad to be in a room where nothing truly felt like his.

He found his sleep easily and restful, though he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the very sudden chill he felt before his eyes grew too heavy to keep open. When he awoke it was dark, the vast swath of stars illuminating the sky where the moonbeams could not outshine them. Armitage found one of many lanterns, lit it, and, finding the horses slumbering, walked towards the castle lake. It was unclear to him if he’d been unaware of how close it actually was to the castle or if there was some spell at play but the answer did not hold much meaning for him. He came to the lake’s shore, found a stone, and threw it into the water.

A silvery head broke the surface some feet away from where he stood. “It is nearly midnight, do humans not usually sleep at this hour?”

“Is there nothing more of your name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why is your name only ‘Phasma?’” He thought she’d chosen to ignore him when her head dipped below the surface again, but then she appeared at the water’s edge and sat herself on the grassy shore.

“Why does a monster need a name in the first place?”

“A great many things have names.” Armitage looked around in the glow of his lantern on the ground. He kicked a stone. “Like rocks.”

“You name rocks?”

“No, they are just named rocks.”

“Well, as I said, I am an undine.”

“Yes, but your _name_ is _Phasma_.”

“And you are asking if there is more to my name.”

“Yes.”

“More than just Phasma.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, no.”

“But why not?”

Phasma’s usually expressionless face scrunched up in thought. “I am not sure. I do not see a reason for more than that.”

“What if you met another person named Phasma?”

“Then I am sure I would be ‘Phasma the Undine’ or something equally descriptive.” She cocked her head. “Armitage, what is this about?”

“My name.”

“What of it?”

“What does it mean to have a name? For it to be yours?” He turned his eyes to the stars. “I wanted to make it mine, to have something that is just mine, but someone I hate gave it to me.”

“So then forget it, find some other name. Make one up. Pick one from a book. Pick many, put them in one of those caps and-”

“But she said it was exciting.”

Phasma sighed heavily before continuing. “She?”

“The Duchess. She said she’d never heard my name before.”

“And this has meaning how…?”

“If someone who has filled so many books recounting her life, the lives of so many, has never heard my name…” A gust of wind carried the scent of the water and flower blossoms across his face and gently tousled his hair. “Then it _is_ mine.”

The undine stared at the human. Silence passed for many heartbeats. There was the sound of bats searching for food. “It is.”

“I have something. That is just mine.”

“This is very important to you.”

“It is.”

Silence filled their conversation once more. Then Phasma dipped back into the water. “Wait just a moment.”

She was gone and Armitage wasn’t sure how long a moment was to an immortal, but it was not very long. A pale hand extended something glittering and round attached to a delicate chain. A locket. Armitage almost took it. “Is this some trick?”

“Like those pesky fae? No. I want to give you something else that can just be yours.” She shook her hand. “Take it.”

He did take it, finding it to have an ‘A’ in a delicate scrollwork etched into the silver. “Thank you.”

“I would have Dopheld clean it up.” The undine pushed herself away from the shore. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“I am not sure what that is.”

“You have a name. What else makes a human?”


	6. What is a Man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted: 2018-11-02, Revised: 2019-04-29

The question plagued Armitage for days; in a world of creatures, demons, immortals, and magic, what was a human? The bastard felt set adrift, a ship with no anchor or rudder, left to be buffeted by the winds and waves to some unknown shore. So he sought direction in the cumulative knowledge of hundreds of people over tens of thousands of years. After all, what else was he supposed to do with his life, a tea candle compared to the bottomless oil burner of the souls around him in his self-imposed prison of iron and stone?

What he’d come to realize was that most of what defined a human was their distinct lack of anything unique or special. It was not their upright posture on their two legs, plenty of things did that, animal or otherwise; it was neither the composition of their bodies nor their ability to speak. Judging by the contents of the tower around him, it was not their desire to produce art, to have a nebulous shifting culture that was a gateway into the soul. It wasn’t the possession of a soul, either, considering demons were only composed of souls and a fair number of other nonhumans, with their art, consciousness, and two legs, had a spiritual element as well, though some did not.

A human lacked magic, which Armitage found curious and obnoxious, but he supposed that was why his companions had a very specific list: animals, creatures, which were different from monsters, humans, magical folk, monsters, which he found had been classified into ‘High Monsters’ and ‘Low Monsters,’ and spirits. Technically a human was an animal, so what distinguished those two was a general idea that humans were sentient and of course had cultures, though apparently from an immortal’s point of view humans weren’t much further up the hierarchy than corvids screeching at one another and favouring certain humans for putting out bits of food. In much the same way a human was not a creature, a creature was an animal formed by magic. Sometimes they had sentience, such as the noble dragon, though they had the potential to be feral and mindless destructors. While they were formed by magic, they did not have sway over it and what little apparent magic they employed was simply a manifestation of their very being.

Magical Folk were in essence humans, they were born as humans to human parents and were more likely than not raised as humans, but they had the ability to use magic as a tool instead of a passive existence in its flow. Humans were the leaves that flowed down the river, having no choice but to be swept wherever the currents went, and Magical Folk were the boatmen, using the water to ease their way.

Monsters were physical conductors of magic at its finest and yet were the most variable. They were formed by magic much like creatures, but they were not all necessarily born into their station. Such monsters were considered ‘Low’ as they were brought into the world as animals or humans, sometimes even Magical Folk. Ghouls, ‘turned’ or ‘low’ vampires, werewolves, though there were a few ‘original’ or ‘high’ werewolves, though Armitage’s current level of education led him to believe that they had been hunted out of existence by both humans and their more powerful cousins. Low Monsters were also considered cursed, having been born into a neutral fate only to be dragged and anchored to damnation by some unfortunate event. High Monsters were birthed with black marks that could never be erased but as the journals of Hunters proved not all of them used their fates as excuses to live in immorality. Monsters were all, to differing degrees, immortal, though some were heartier and better equipped than others. Some were not as well versed in the use of magic, for instance, a werewolf did not have much in the way of magic where a vampire was capable of nearly anything.

Spirits, of course, had no physical being and thus were the closest to the magical plane, allowing them to use magic to near omnipotence. It explained how Dopheld kept the castle and its grounds so well-kept and was able to influence physical objects as if he still had a body. The spirits had their own classifications, more minute than the creatures or monsters, but it appeared that the differences in their creation did not matter much; a ghost was about as powerful as a demon and they were both more or less bound to some object, person, or place.

Thus Armitage realized how incredibly small and insignificant human life was. They lived short miserable lives without any direction other than their inevitable march towards death. 

‘ _As I see it_ ,’ Armitage wrote in the journal he began to keep to chronicle his time in the castle, ‘ _the defining characteristic of humans is our hubris. Humans are intelligent enough to know we are superior to the worms, insects, and rodents, but we are so blinded by our self-absorbed view that we are distinctly unaware of how low we are in the hierarchy. We think ourselves the apex predator, the warrior and the bard, but if we removed our eyes from our dazzling reflections we would see that we are simply the grass to the sheep, the unsuspecting and defenceless prey to something much higher than ourselves._ ’

On his scholarly pursuit for answers, he had curious conversations with both spirit and monster.

“What comes to mind when you think of humans?”

The undine was rearranging the bones of a fish on a flat rock that also served as the desk for his journal. Armitage penned that Phasma had made a human-like figure: the fish’s skull was the head, the spine was, of course, its stick-thin body, and some ribs made up the simplified arms and legs. She gave him a little hat and, much to his embarrassment, found the smallest bone to place between the bone-man’s splayed thighs. Then he sketched it anyway because there was likely something in her crudeness to be analyzed. Was casual sexuality a trait of monsters? A trait of undines or other water-bound nonhumans? Was it just Phasma being a Phasma?

“Their smell.” Her sudden uninterested statement brought him back to the present moment.

“How do humans smell, exactly?” He refilled the reservoir of his quill in anticipation of her answer.

“Freshly-killed fish.” Armitage hesitated in making her observation more permanent than mere words on the wind. His eyes followed her long pale fingers as they picked up a long fishbone and repeatedly stabbed it into the tiny skull’s eye socket much like a small child poking a stick into a hole in the dirt. “Something right before it begins to rot.”

He penned the response, thanked her profusely for the time they spent together, packed his things into the leather satchel Dopheld found for him, and got back onto the bay mare. Armitage had decided to name her Millicent. It seemed a good name.

Back at Castle Finndale, he was caught by a certain spirit, his pale green eyes intensely staring at a boar butchered just that morning. He had intended on eating it until his conversation by the lake.

“Armitage, is there something wrong with it?” The ghost had sounded more concerned than normal, it reminded the redhead of the time he’d been obsessed by the purpose of a name. That must mean he was now obsessing over some other matter.

“You have an olfactory sense, do you not?” He would need to remember this conversation when he could sit down with his journal and quill. His eyes still lingered on the cleaned boar carcass on the butcher’s table.

“I do. The boar does not smell off.”

“What do humans smell like to you, Dopheld?” Armitage turned so that he might discern the hidden meanings behind his companion’s facial expressions. _Concern. Confusion._

“Wet wood. Leaves and dry grass. Soil and stones.” The corporeal man hummed, disgruntled. “Was that the wrong answer?”

“No, just an answer whose meaning is not clear to me yet.” He turned back to the boar. “What do animals smell like to you, then?”

There was a moment of silence save for the crack of the fire in its pit. “Alive?”

“Both.”

Another moment of silence. He imagined the spirit would be cleaning his nails or shifting his weight from one foot to the other if he had any sense of it. Maybe he was combing his fingers through his hair. “Much the same as humans. Then… like a creek run dry. Fallen trees. Old wet leaves.”

“What does the Duchess smell like?”

“Armitage, what is the purpose of this interrogation?” The time it took for the human to answer was too long. “Maybe you need to lie down.”

“I do not need to lie down, I simply want to know the answer.”

Dopheld’s shimmering blue form reflected that of a man who has forgotten he is already dead, calculating the likelihood that Armitage was mere moments from breaking a nose or taking the cleaver into his delicate fingers. He found the chance slim but existential, but both were more likely to harm the mortal than the ghost. “Metal. Steel or silver. Iron. The air when a lightning storm is on the horizon, when you can hear the thunder boom and echo off the mountains. Fire.”

If he extended his imagination, the redhead could understand that description.

The living were just things waiting to succumb to time, to be the fuel of a future they would never see.

Armitage looked at the boar and attempted to stretch his imagination far enough, to a grass-thin sheet.

He was not quite ready to accept his humanity as nothing more than putting a masquerade costume on an animal whose sole purpose was to propagate itself as many times as possible before either predator or disease found it.

His hubris was to blame for the pageantry of the blade separating the boar’s head from its body, making it a weak metaphor for his mind being made.

* * *

The autumn days came and with them Armitage’s need to collect cloaks and blankets like some nesting bird. Safe within the confines of the castle, he allowed himself the simple pleasures that had been robbed of him. Under his father’s disgusted gaze he would have, of course, never been able to walk through the fallen leaves: collecting the most vibrant into fiery bouquets, scooping up as many as could be held between his two large hands and scattering them around to hear their pleasant rustling, or sweeping them into piles for a crunchy cushion to stargaze in the crisp air that turned his nose and ears redder than his hair.

Dopheld made the most delicious warm mulled wines and meads to push the chill from the human’s skin when he came back inside or mixed the perfect liquor concoctions to ease him to sleep. He became obsessed with a bitter powder that the ghost mixed into warmed milk; it was called cocoa, from the cocoa bean, and they had been grown in the castle greenhouse ever since another High Vampire brought it back from some faraway place. Armitage would drink it from a ceramic mug that absorbed the heat just enough that it kept his eternally-cold hands not so cold as he sat in the library window sills. His eyes marvelled at how the Haunted Forest was set ablaze with changing leaves, watched the tendrils of smoke rise from hunters’ or cottage fires. By their own fires, he read the less thought-provoking books in the library, always placing a small brass cat figurine in the book’s spot so he could put it back. He didn’t remember where he found it, in some moments he suspected that Dopheld was playing tricks on him or that there were more residents of Castle Finndale than he was aware.

Armitage had known very little domestic duties, stuck somewhere between nobility and dirt where learning to cook was considered too far below him and effeminate but he wasn’t declared important enough to always get a meal when he required one. So he could prepare some simple meals but now that the kitchen staff was a single ghost who would rather be dusting a chandelier or fluffing his Master’s unused pillow for the billionth time since the last instance it was used, the little mouse was determined to learn instead of expecting Dopheld to do tasks for him. Thankfully there was a wealth of books on the subject of cooking and baking and under the watchful eye of a certain spirit, he managed to produce edible and enjoyable meals without setting the wrong things on fire. Food had always been a chore to the wiry pale child, flavourless and dull, but now he found himself looking forward to meals and even meals between meals. The ghost made a comment about the virtue of making things for one’s self and Armitage had begun to agree. At least his stomach was upset less often and his joints weren’t so sharp.

The patricide was, however, still too self-absorbed to do his own laundry, but he justified it by cleaning up after himself in the kitchen. Besides, it seemed as if Dopheld enjoyed having someone to look after. Armitage imagined he would be upset too if his Master for all of eternity suddenly stopped needing him. So the redhead found activities that the two of them could enjoy, like longtime companions would, so that they could maintain a human connection. After once being complimented on his soothing voice, the little mouse would invite the ghost to sit across from him on one of the window sills in the library. With one of those hot cocoa drinks by his side and the sun setting beautifully making the tower glow in warm colours, Armitage would read aloud until the little lights came to life, signalling the end of the day and the arrival of night. He even developed the habit of putting on voices when a book contained several characters and they would occasionally laugh, especially when they were high-pitched and reedy.

As the nights became longer and colder, Armitage started to notice the animals recede into the castle, searching for warmth and shelter. Considering the slowly approaching frost he was curious as to what would happen to his undine friend when the surface of the lake froze. The castle truly was a fortress for the supernatural and otherworldly, hiding secret entrances and rooms for special guests; in this case, the lake was connected to a pool in the deep basements where Phasma and a stock of aquatic animals would spend their winters waiting for the ice to melt. During his investigation of the more dark recesses in the castle, he found the inexplicable mechanizations that kept the castle warm and lit. Armitage asked Dopheld about it all, but even the ghost knew little of how it worked or even what to call it. Something about water and the heat of the earth if you dug deep enough.

Passing through the maze of a basement the little lights came on and winked out as he went, much like they did in the rest of the castle. The little mouse discovered rooms, cells rather, where the stone was gouged by what he could only assume had been the claws of some beast. Knowing that the vampires were regarded as rulers and judges it would not surprise him if the Duchess or one of her ancestors had imprisoned one of their nonhuman subjects for some crime. Perhaps it was one of the ferals he had heard of before.

The blood in his body went cold and he stopped in his tracks. The light golden red hairs on his arms stood up under his tunic and he would have heard his own heart attempting to break his breastbone if his ears weren’t acutely aware of a sound.

_Ssshrshk. Click. Thud. Ssssssshrsshk. Thud. Ssshrshk. Click. Thud. Hah. Ssssssshrsshk. Thud._

At the very end of the corridor, Armitage could see the little lights come to life.


	7. Monster Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-11-16, Revised: 2019-04-29

A dark shape made a void in the distant corridor lights. Armitage screeched like a banshee. Were banshees real? He’d have to go look it up, if he managed to live long enough. His throat hurt as if he drank one of those hot cocoa milk drinks too soon.

“Oh dear.” The voice, just a few meters away, was both disappointed and concerned. “That isn’t you, is it Dopheld?”

Armitage hesitated. “No?” The redhead winced; he should’ve kept quiet, except he was practically standing in a spotlight.

“That’s strange, he normally comes to see me when I drop in.” _Ssssshk. Sssshk._ “I did see a flock of gryffens making their way to the gate.”

“Excuse me?” He started to make out the figure. It was a bit shorter than him, a little hunched to one side, and its left leg was sticking at a stiff angle, explaining the noise he was hearing.

“Sorry about the wait, I twisted my leg something fierce. Bloody villagers have gone mad.” The figure was just a few feet away; the fugitive could tell that his skin had once been a dark brownish colour but was now more like a log seen through milky water. He’d only ever seen one dark-skinned person, someone in service to the king in Coruscant, and Armitage remembered his father speaking very poorly of the man’s ‘kind.’ Thus, he was determined to treat this one with the utmost respect.

“I apologize for screaming, it is just that-”

“I’ve never seen you around these parts, you must be new? Smoke, nutty… A human? Not one of the Pale Lady’s...” Gimlet eyes of brown gave the redhead a once-over before a hand was extended. “My name’s Finn. I’m the ghoul what takes care of the cemetery in the Haunted Forest. The Red Duke called me ‘Tombkeeper of the Night Creatures,’ had a plaque made and everything.”

“Oh? That does sound like a very important occupation, I imagine not many want to go about burying monsters and the like.” Armitage’s eyes followed the ghoul’s motions a little too closely for respectable amounts of trust.

“Especially when they can be so large. Ever tried to bury a dragon? I haven’t, but I’d imagine it’d be difficult.” He produced the aforementioned plaque, holding the wood-and-gold chunk with pride. Armitage couldn’t read the script but he trusted it did say at least most of what he’d been informed of. “I woulda been uncharacteristically unpleasant if I’d lost this.”

“I am not entirely clear on what has happened.”

The ghoul put his prized possession back into his satchel. “There were some humans killed, real rough like by what I could hear. So the living ones got into a real mood, see, and have started looking for the culprit. Or multiples, I reckon.”

“And they believe them to be neither an animal nor a human?”

Finn smirked and in one fluid motion jabbed his pointer finger at Armitage and swooped it away, winking as he did so. “Knew you’d be a bright one. They ran me out of the cemetery with fire and pitchforks, right mob-like. The pitchforks I wasn’t so much afeared of, but I don’t want to experiment with what a torching would do to me.”

“From what I have read, ghouls are usually killed with fire, though there is some difficulty in getting them dry enough to catch.” Armitage sucked in a breath. “I apologize, that was-”

The ghoul chuckled. “Quite alright, good to know, I reckon.”

“Would you like me to… help you? To the upper floors?” Armitage wasn’t particularly strong but a little help had to be quicker than letting the poor… man shuffle so far.

Finn’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful, thank you. This is why I don’t let the bad ones change my opinion of you fellows.”

The redhead eased some of the ghoul’s weight off of the twisted- was it twisted like a normal leg? Or was it because ghouls were a little… well, dead? Was this what dying things felt like? He didn’t smell as awful as Armitage had imagined. Mostly like dirt. There was a distinct lack of ‘human’ smell, that smell of sweat and… living. Apparently, ghouls didn’t sweat, maybe because they were already so cold. As they walked through the halls together, as he helped Finn up the stairs, his mind wandered itself down the corridors of his curiosity, peeking behind doors to see if he knew the answers to such things as ‘how did they function without blood?’ and ‘how does it feel to be that way?’ or ‘what do ghouls even eat?’

He realized that one of them was having the conversation internally while the other was playing company to the stones in the walls. “What?”

“ _‘Cause they got no organs!_ ”

Armitage furrowed his brows but he wasn’t left to be confused for long as they made their way into the courtyard between the castle and the gate. After being down in the dark for so long, the sun hurt his pale green eyes and he scrunched them up. For a night-being, Finn didn’t seem to be bothered much, even cheerily waved at where Dopheld was having a harried discussion of his own with a group of… somethings. He found that the more he tried to determine their shape the less he understood. “What are those things Dopheld is talking to?”

“Are kids still afraid of the dark?” The little mouse helped Finn sit down on a stone bench near the courtyard fountain. It was a group of water creatures and what Armitage assumed were undines and such engaged in merriment.

“Yes.” Half a beat passed. “How old are you?”

“A ghoul never tells.” The monster made a vague gesture. “They’re the thing that’s in the dark what makes you afraid. They’re harmless. I always called ‘em Dodgers on account of them always not quite being in your eye and they’re a bit dodgy, yeah? I think most people call them Shadows or Bogeymen. Not really _men_ , though.”

Armitage tried to watch as the… smudges moved from the gate to… somewhere. Actually, Armitage was a little relieved that he could no longer just barely see them, like ghostly eels made of smoke and steam writhing in midair. Dopheld approached, looking exhausted despite being tireless. A mental exhaustion. “I would say it is lovely to see you again, Finn, but I’m sure your circumstances are not much better than everyone else’s.”

“Right lovely to see you, Doph. Mister, ah…?”

“I apologize, A-”

“Mister Iapologize- what a strange name- helped me up here all on his own. I’ll be making my way to my usual lodging if you could be so kind as to tell the Pale Lady I need me a little fix-up.” The ghost appeared as if he couldn’t decide between polite laughter and an exasperated sigh. The resulting downtrodden expression turned the ghoul’s amused demeanour towards concern. “I don’t like that look.”

“I am afraid Master might not come to aid you. For now, you might have to make do with these.” From thin air, the spirit produced two crutches not too unlike the ones Armitage had to use after breaking a foot ‘falling down the stairs.’ He helped the ghoul to his feet so that he could more easily take hold of his new accessories.

“Shouldn’t you at least have someone set it?” There was only one doctor in Arkanis and he was drunk about 14 hours out of the day if you didn’t count how long he stayed asleep, but the redhead knew you had to put the pieces back the way they were supposed to be or else they would heal weird and never be the same.

Finn laughed and waved a crutch around in a humoured swirl. “Don’t work that way. It’ll be fine the way it is until someone with the proper know-how comes around. Thanks for the lift, Mister Iapologize.”

“It’s Armitage.”

* * *

A fair number of things neither animal nor human took up temporary residence in the castle and its grounds. Armitage assumed it would quiet down after a few days, but it looked like the human penchant for short memories didn’t hold true this time. It had made sense that the first things to be driven through the gate and other secret passageways had been creatures and the undead things, they were the most threatening to the mortal psyche. For the most part, the creatures found homes in places the redhead didn’t frequent, they became ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ Harpies and gryffens roosting in the mountains, unnatural beasts in the lake and pools, and spirits finding refuge in the darkness did not prove a disruption.

Finn apparently had a little shelter, which Armitage had mistaken for a more ornate burial marker, in the centre of the castle graveyard. He didn’t mind the ghoul that much, he didn’t need to hop his way around the castle to talk to his friend the ghost and he didn’t make any noise. For the most part, the redhead forgot he was there except for when they both happened to be in the basement pool to visit the undine.

The fugitive resident was sitting in one of the library tower windows as he normally did when something had caught his eye. It was not the shape of some great beast of the sky like he expected but a plume of smoke rising from the forest. Maybe he’d seen it every now and again before as the days grew colder, he was aware that there were people living in between the ghastly twisted trees. For a while, he put it out of his mind until pale green eyes were distracted by an unusual shock of orange-red where the trees did not change colours.

_**Fire.** _

“Dopheld!” The ghost didn’t answer his summons so Armitage put his book down carefully on the ledge and bounded down the spiral stairs. His boots pounded against stone and thick rugs until he was in the Great Hall where he stopped at the sound of voices speaking over one another.

There was a young woman, her hair black and bouncy and skin the colour of a pale nut, standing in the middle of a circle of objects he didn’t quite process. An orange tabby cat leapt from the pile to run up to him, rubbing its face on his leg before flopping down. The young woman was in body-shaking tears which the spirit was attempting to calm. “I assume this has something to do with what I saw.”

“I-it’s all g-gone!” She pulled a colourful swath of fabric from some secret pocket of her dress and hid her face in it.

“The townspeople again?” Dopheld nodded solemnly. Armitage chewed the inside of his cheek. “This is becoming ridiculous.”

“I didn’t do anything!” This wasn’t territory the redhead was used to travelling but he approached the woman to put a hand on her shoulder. She reacted by throwing her arms around him and squeezing him tightly.

“This is Rose,” the spirit offered.

Armitage put his arms gently around her shoulders, patting her back. “I know you did not do anything, Rose. From what I have heard you are a very nice lady. They are being irrational.”

It was like that for a few more minutes, her tears turning his shirt damp until finally she was calmed down enough to not need his comfort. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Armitage.” He considered it a moment. “Armitage Aventhal, but you may just call me Armitage.”

“Finn has been calling him ‘Mister Iapologize.’”

Rose chuckled. “He’s always a funny one.”

“You can, of course, stay in the castle until everything has been sorted out, Miss Tico.” Dopheld did a little respectful bow from the waist.

“Thank you, but why hasn’t anything been done already? So many are here already.”

It was true, there was quite a number of things running around the grounds now. Banshees, harpies, someone whom Armitage mistook for a ghoul but was actually just a woman who suffered burns but turned out she was a witch of a lesser order. Walking skeletons, paintings coming to life, talking animals, shrubbery moving about. The pools in the basement were getting a little crowded to which Phasma was whining about. “I’m about to risk just walking around and sitting in the tubs,” she said to him on his last visit.

“Master is…”

“Everything will work out.” Armitage picked up one of the wooden crates of Rose’s things. “Let us find you a room for the meantime. Dopheld, will run you a bath? And I will make you something to eat.”

The young woman picked up some of her things and followed him through the halls to choose one of the nice spacious rooms down the hall from his. The redhead spent a few minutes comforting the tabby before the bath was ready and he went into the kitchen, the ghost helping him make enough for all of the residents who needed it. He decided that as unofficial host, Armitage would sit with the witch as they shared a meal.

“I can’t believe it’s all gone,” Rose mumbled as she pushed some meat around her plate.

His smile was sympathetic. “I am very sorry for it. We will sort everything out. I will help you make a new cottage.”

She turned her eyes up to him. They were soft and brown. “Really? I’d appreciate it so much.”

“It would be my pleasure, though I do not know much about building. I suppose I will have to find a book on it.”

“Not many people in these parts like reading. Or can, for that matter.” They laughed lightly in unison amusement.

“I adore it, I have spent most of my time here in the library,” he said before chewing on some roasted vegetables.

“It is a very comprehensive collection.”

“You have spent time here? What am I saying, of course, you have.” Armitage put food in his mouth instead of putting his foot further in.

Rose giggled, scrunching up her nose and cheeks as she did so. “Are you trying to guess my age?”

“That would be rude,” he replied in false offence.

“I have been here quite a few times in the past, the castle is a known repository of information and supplies that even I have a hard time gathering. And there is also all of the festivities and such the Duchess hosts.”

“I look forward to the next one, then.” Armitage beamed but his witch companion was not so cheerful. “What is wrong?”

“With how things have been… I wonder if there will be a next one.”

He reached across the table and placed one of his hands over one of hers. “Everything will be fine.”

“She would’ve done something by now.” The redhead wasn’t sure what to say. “Armitage, be truthful, is something the matter in this castle, other than everyone flocking to it for a safe haven from the humans?”

The fugitive chewed the inside of his cheek. Solemnly he pitched his voice low and his eyes could no longer keep contact with hers.

“Yes.”


	8. An Awkward Inconvenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-11-30, Revised: 2019-04-29

As it stood, there was nothing Armitage could do for the displaced beings haunting both castle and grounds, so he attempted to put it out of his mind. Such a task was, of course, as all unheroic acts by story heroes, interrupted.

Sitting in the highest room of the library tower, a conical space with glass walls and a _chaise longue_ that had no business being so comfortable, the redhead fugitive fell onto the floor with how suddenly he was disturbed. The sick sound of glass being broken was only outshone by having to watch the mass of feathers approach at high velocity. This was put to pink-cheeked shame by the grotesque business of being witness to a rather large hawk turn into a somewhat average man of light-but-rich brown skin. Armitage proceeded to tap a fleshy round bit with the toe of his boot.

The fleshy bit, rather what was attached to it, groaned in response. “The hardest part… is the landing, just so you know.”

“I thought it was falling out of the sky while mating.” He’d read that in a book somewhere. The closest thing he’d seen to two birds falling out of the sky while attempting to reproduce was a crude drawing of a woman being penetrated by what he’d assumed was supposed to be a horse. At the time he was suspicious that it might have been drawn by a very disturbed 8-year-old. Or maybe just a stable hand with a poor understanding of art.

“I may turn into animals but I’m not touched in the head.” Lustrous dark curls bounced against the man’s face with the effort of picking himself up off the ground without attracting any more shards of the broken window. Armitage shivered as the autumn draft whistled past. “How do you think I feel?”

“I am not the one who can magically acquire a pelt,” he argued. “It seems rather inconvenient to lose your clothes whenever you shift shape.”

The shapeshifter raised and lowered his arms in defeat. With a look at his appearance he sighed. “I normally carry a bag with me, but some arsehole thought it wise to try shooting me down.”

“The nerve.” Armitage could assume the why and who of the situation.

“Got my bag, threw me off, and here I am.” Just as he was attempting to tiptoe to the staircase, the shimmering blue form of Dopheld appeared with a bag firmly in his ethereal hands. The man excitedly took it.

“What brings you to Castle Finndale, Captain Dameron?” Cool as glacial runoff, the castle steward made quick work of repairing the glass with the near omnipotence of his magic.

Without the hazard on the floor, the shapeshifter was not nearly as quick about getting dressed. Armitage recognized the pin on his doublet as the proud sigil of the Alderaan Guard, the three stars marking his rank. A crisply-folded piece of parchment bearing the red wax seal of the Alderaan Queen was pulled from the satchel. “I am looking for a certain someone.”

The ghost sighed and there was a moment of reflection. “So it was one of us.”

“Excuse me but I believe I need some more information if I am to follow this conversation?” Armitage spoke up.

Captain Dameron clapped the fleshy shoulder and started walking down the staircase, speaking as they made their way towards the more central parts of the castle. “Bonnie Prince Benny has made a mess of things.”

“How so?”

Dameron tapped the side of his nose and winked. “Family secret.”

“I cannot very well help you if I do not know the situation.” Armitage stopped suddenly in the hallway just before the front hall.

“And how exactly would a human with bibliophilia help me?”

“Is that Poe?” Rose appeared from around the archway, cutting short the bastard taking offence to the shapeshifter’s words. There was a clatter and she rushed to the source, the overlapping voices of witch and ghoul prompting a reaction of strong friendly magnetism.

Armitage watched the reunion with the nagging feeling of someone who had just realized that when they died no one would care. There were hugs and quick exchanges of both wit and harmless banter. Consolation. Nostalgia. Jealousy rose in his chest and he was compelled to interrupt. “What has Alderaan’s Prince done to necessitate this visit, Captain Dameron?”

“Ben killed those people?” Rose implored, attempting to snatch the letter from the tan-skinned man’s gloved hand. She stamped her foot like a petulant child denied a sweet.

“Vampire eyes only, Miss Witch.” Poe the Shapeshifter winked with a click of his tongue before growing solemn. “We aren’t sure if he was responsible for the killings, but he has been missing from Alderaan’s holdings ever since. We assume the worst. Finndale is my last stop before we have to extend our search past the lands that honour our country’s treaty.”

“Oh, we have to help him. He’s always been confused and angry. He’s not feral, I know it, Poe.” Rose was worrying at the hem of her warm knit sweater with the little moons and cats patterned in. Armitage had never seen anything like it.

“Unfortunately, we cannot exactly help, Captain,” Dopheld chimed in from the redhead’s right. He would have looked a bit green if his flesh hadn’t been replaced by blue shimmering ethereal energy.

Poe’s handsome face contorted in confusion. “Why ever not?”

“I’ve been unable to communicate with the Duchess for quite some time.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, my dear spirit.”

Finn placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She’s locked herself away. Sealed up tighter than those tombs in the deserts that explorers talk about.”

“Fie, isn’t that a disheartening tale.” The shapeshifter gave each disappointed face a searching gaze, hoping someone would come up with a solution. “Perhaps… we should employ the Hunters for aid, before the humans do.”

“But none of us can go out there for fear of our lives,” the witch whispered with distress. The ghoul by her side nodded in solemn agreement. “The humans are much too sensitive.”

There was a shuffling of feet and a few moments of navel-gazing before Armitage spoke up. “I will go.”

“But you are wanted for the murder of your father,” Dopheld objected without a second thought. The redhead sent the edges of the ghost’s form swirling with a pat of the shoulder and one side of his mouth curled up in a smile. At least someone cared, just a little bit.

“I am sure someone in this lot has a way to disguise me. Without my red hair, I am certain most people will not be able to recognize me so easily.” Armitage made his own rounds of searching faces for bits of wisdom.

“We could just dye your hair. You would be going to Acht-to, not the larger towns where someone might know you,” Rose offered, already thinking about the process.

“You will have to leave through the basement tunnels,” the ghoul piped in, almost ecstatic to add to the plot. “I’ve seen humans milling around the front road.”

“They’ve come up to the gates several times, it would ruin your disguise to be seen leaving from the castle so directly,” the ghost confirmed.

“Is there anything else I should know? Should I brush up on my swordsmanship? Carry some sacred relic?” Armitage chuckled at the thought.

“Most of everyone is in the castle bounds so you shouldn’t have much trouble,” Dopheld said humourlessly. Finn rolled his eyes dramatically, much to Rose’s delight, a giggle stifled with a hand.

“Take the letter and you should be fine. A normal human won’t be able to tell that you associate with nonhumans. Though throwing yourself in a puddle of mud might help you blend in.” Poe Dameron held out the piece of parchment for the human and there was a lengthy discussion of where exactly the tiny remote village of Acht-To was and how to find the monster hunters. After the displeasing process of having his hair turned brown, Armitage stopped by his room to throw on a warm wool cloak and a pair of gloves to ward off the chilly autumn winds before his ghostly guide led him through the castle until they came to a thick iron door. Letter safely tucked into the breast of his doublet, a sword he picked from the armoury dangling on his belt ‘just in case’, and with an ominous turn of a heavy key, Armitage was back on ‘normal’ soil.

He just had a difficult time deciding if it really was normal. Or if normal held any true meaning at all.

Never a more uneventful journey had been made by a hero, though Armitage was not much of a hero in the sense that he did not possess a sword blessed by magic or some marking so unique its bearer must be special. He would never be the one leading an army into battle nor would he be participating in any duels; he would not even be the one in charge of fixing the particular situation he’d found himself in, but instead would just be facilitating, just a messenger.

He did, however, see a robin sitting in a tree, which was odd considering they were migratory and should have all been long gone by now.

The village of Acht-To was only 4 cottages made of stone and wood with thatched roofs. There were some people milling about, hard at work preparing for the winter after bringing in their harvests, and none paid any mind to the now-brunette. Armitage found the door with the symbol as it was described to him. After a heavy knock a young woman, brown hair swept up into a bun and face suspicious, answered. “Can we help you?”

“Yes, very much so.” He plucked the Alderaan Queen’s letter from inside his doublet and delicately handed it over. Rey, as those back at the castle had called her, scrunched up her face as she broke the seal and read.

The young Hunter’s face grew grave and, without a word, she turned on her heel and went back into the hut. Armitage shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting outside of the open door feeling a little confused and out of the loop. Then an old but not frail or unkindly voice called from the darkness. “Don’t be daft, son, come in and close the door!”

He slipped inside and put the thick slab of wood between him and the cold. Eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and he found the Hunters gathered around a fire, one in a bundle of grey robes pouring over the letter again and again. Armitage was looking around at the trophies and weapons lining the walls, oblivious that someone was addressing him. “I apologize, I was just… comparing.”

“Why are we the ones reading this?” The older man looked the usually-a-redhead up and down with a sceptical eye. “And who are you?”

“I am the only human in the castle, thus it was determined I was the safest choice for bringing you this letter.” He took a moment to swallow. “As for the letter, its addressee is… indisposed.”

Rey rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Vampires, always with the drama. Master Skywalker, why must we clean up this mess?”

“Duchess Pritchard and her family are not known for their dramatics, but I have sensed matters have been discordant for some time.” The Master Hunter gave his apprentice a sidelong glance, one that took years of familiarity for the recipient to be able to read.  
“Current affairs would lend themselves to such a conclusion,” the false brunette added uselessly. The youngest of the three scoffed and went to make preparations, or so he assumed that was what all of the rummaging in her room was.

“I keep track of Ben, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him.” Master Skywalker scratched his salt-and-pepper beard thoughtfully. “You can, of course, come along if you-”

“No, I am quite fine with my position as the human errand boy.”

“No, not many would find it appealing to be staring down the business end of a werewolf with an anger issue.” Armitage watched as Master Skywalker tucked the letter into his robes and put the kettle on the fire for tea.

A slightly flustered Rey came back into the main room carrying more than her fair share of bags. “What, the dye-job isn’t coming?”

“Hey!” He pointed a long pale finger at his hair, dark eyebrows creased. “This is for my protection.”

She gave his thin frame a once over, chuckling lightly to herself at the sight of his weapon. “From what, exactly?”

“People.” He squared his shoulders, feeling mildly threatened and needing to reestablish what little self-confidence he owned. “People who might recognize me.”

“So you’ve been in a vampire’s castle- bottle still corked I see- and you’re worried about people recognizing you?” He didn’t bother responding. “I’d say you’re a criminal if I didn’t know they’d toss a person of ill will out or bleed ‘im dry. So you’re just a-”

Pale green eyes flashed in the firelight, daring her to say it.

“Coward.”

Armitage deflated slightly before deciding he would not lose this battle so easily. “I came all the way here, did I not?”

“Yea, but you dyed your hair and I’m sure you snuck out of a secret door. And you reek of magic, anything left in that forest would’ve-”

“Quit your squabbling,” the older man interjected as the kettle began to whistle and he poured it into the proper receptacle. “So what exactly do you have to be so cautious about, Ser Errand Boy?”

Armitage shifted nervously and considered the reaction he would receive. Surely they wouldn’t kill him, he was under the protection of the Duchess. Or was he? At the very least Dopheld would be upset. What kind of fit could a ghost pitch if he was properly miffed? “I killed my father.”

Rey looked offended, but Master Skywalker reduced any room for complaint into a thin disc with an understanding nod. “My father is a dragon, almost killed him once.”

“A dragon?”

“Quite.”

“Fie,” Armitage whispered under his breath. A moment where the only sound was the fire crackling passed. “The one up in the mountain?”

“I owe her Highness’s family quite a few favours for that.” He sipped his tea, which the errand boy was sure had to be much too hot to drink still.

“How does a dragon-”

“Oh, it doesn’t. But a sorcerer does, on occasion, get convinced to muck about in things that shouldn’t be mucked with, things tend to get a bit-”

“Mucked up.”

“I was going to say ‘fucked up’ but that works as well.”


	9. The Bastard of Arkanis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-12-05, Revised: 2019-04-29

Armitage left Acht-To, his task completed, and made his way back to the castle. Apprentice Rey and Master Luke Skywalker would find Ben the werewolf Prince of Alderaan and bring him to Finndale Castle. From there, they, along with Captain Dameron, would take him back to Queen Organa to hand down punishment for his crimes against the humans, something harsh enough to appease but, hopefully, it would not result in the cursed man’s death. It was all neatly laid out, no need for the fugitive human to get any further involved, which was much to his relief.

When he arrived back at the castle, taking the secret entrance from whence he’d left the day before, the currently-brunette found the grounds in a state of bedlam. There was a group of gryffens screeching their displeasure from the castle crenellations and the nervous twitching of Shadows hiding behind a piece of statuary. “What in the hell is going on?”

There were humans, by the looks of them, attempting to breach the front gate. Both portcullis and drawbridge had been put into place, leaving them to hurl objects at the heavy wood bound with iron, demanding entrance. Their shouts were unstructured, creating a cacophony of indecipherable yelling to wash over the high stone walls and bounce off the trees below. Dopheld, Finn, Poe, and Rose were standing together, anxiously watching the gates shudder ever so slightly. Through a nearby window, Armitage noticed Phasma, glaring and crossing her arms.

“This is not ideal,” the usually-ginger man offered uselessly.

“Good, you’re back, that means Luke and Rey are on the case, right?” The tone in Poe’s voice was edged, promising that Armitage was going to find himself face-to-face with a rather irate shapeshifter if the answer was ‘no.’

“The hunt for the Prince of Alderaan is underway, I assure you.” They all nodded and turned their attention back to the gates. “I assume we have nothing to worry about?”

“Not entirely. Given enough time to figure out how and to gather the strength, they could breach the castle,” Dopheld explained much too calmly.

“Okay, and if they did, I would then assume we could fight them off?” Armitage gestured to the castle and surrounding grounds. “I mean, there’s a dragon in the mountains! All sorts of seemingly immortal beings. Magic!”

“Yes, we could push them back or destroy them entirely.” The ghost’s pale blue eyes did not leave the gate. Armitage was getting the feeling that the spirit was upset. _I would be too_ , he thought, _if a bunch of mortals were trying to break down my front door._

“But it could mean a human war against us,” Finn said to fill the ominous silence that hung around the group. “And there’s a lot more of them than us, even if the Crown came in full force.”

“We wouldn’t be welcome in this land anymore and word would spread as it always does,” Rose’s voice was melancholic and her black curls bounced against her shawl as she lowered her head, innocent eyes downcast. The Alderaan Captain placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“We will live through this. It will not be our extinction event.” Poe locked eyes with Armitage and the once charming smile was the same as it always was, except it was filled with barely bridled anger. “Besides, you could always leave and be fine. Find yourself a new name. Go far enough away that no one will think any differently about how you look.”

The lone human’s stomach felt like a rock, threatening to drag him to the bottom of the sea. He didn’t bother defending himself, he would not be believed. Instead, Armitage would act, even if it was foolish and pointless.

He just didn’t know that yet.

It would come to him as a surprise, as any proper heroic act did. True heroes barreled headfirst towards a solution and when the dust settled they would look back and say ‘what did I go and do that for?’ True heroes didn’t know what they were, they just thought they had terrible luck and kept finding themselves in troubling situations.

It had been two days since Armitage returned from Acht-To and there was nothing to show for it. The only thing that had changed was that the humans at the gates had grown bold and were engineering a bridge of their own to cover the chasm left by the castle’s drawbridge. From the upper floors of the library, the fugitive watched them bring lumber and stones up the mountainside through the abandoned forest, no monsters to hinder their path. With the aid of a spyglass he’d found in the library’s collection, he could see what was most likely supposed to be a battering ram being made on level ground just outside the line of dark trees.

Armitage did what any hero did and panicked.

He also did what every person who had to hold onto their lives with tooth and nail from the day they could walk and had fine motor skills did.

He thought only of his own survival.

To call him selfish was an insult to cockles. Cockles, with their two valves and gonochorism, were sheltered and thought they deserved the world. The world, to them, was a nice sandy beach and deserving it only meant that a hungry seabird or a passing rake picked up their neighbours, leaving them with more little organisms to eat.

Armitage had the self-worth of nipples on a breastplate. Something to think about, not really much purpose.

About now his balled fist would be roughly an eighth of an inch from the shimmering barrier surrounding the Inner Sanctum doors. At this moment in time he was feeling rather hopeless but angry, a combination both useful to and in plentiful supply from bastards with noble parents. In the following moment, his thoughts generally circled ‘ _ow!_ ’ and ‘ _fuck!_ ’

He would be embarrassed to admit his mind was a jumble, melted all together by the electric force that had coursed through him upon contact with the magic barrier, and his last words of encouragement to himself were ' _I will save the cocoa!_ ' He wanted the cocoa more than he wanted to save the day but whatever managed to convince him to be the human equivalent of a wine bottle would have to do.

Against all expectation the shimmering seal blistered away, allowing Armitage to push open the heavy doors. He spent no time looking around, _yes, yes, the decor is quite striking and symbolic, I know_. With the air he would have been taught to exude if his mother hadn’t been a lowly commoner, he marched right up to the pair of embracing angels, the haphazard pile of furs, velvets, laces, leathers, and silks still approximately in the same position it was the last time he was there. At some point, she had scratched her nose and sniffled.

“Come down this _instant_.”

Silence.

“I will _not_ repeat myself,” he growled like an indignant nun to a misbehaving pupil. When she did not respond again, he stamped his foot stubbornly. “ _Fine_ , I will just have to come up there.”

Which was a task easier said than done. The Duchess had, of course, supernatural physiology and powers, scaling a 15-foot marble statue would have been simple. Somehow, using his height to his advantage and the benefit of actually having three decent meals a day, Armitage managed to straddle an angel’s arm. He stared at the mass of fabric, most of its fleshy interior hidden from view. “You know, there is a right mess out there.”

He counted to five before continuing. “Are you not going to do anything about it? Those are _your_ subjects.”

This time he counted to ten. In the most dignified manner, which was about as dignified as a priest being caught with his trousers down in a whorehouse, Armitage slid himself further down the arm towards the vampire. “All of the monsters and such are here. There are humans making to break the gates.”

He had no choice but to shake her. When she didn’t move he got closer. How did one determine if a vampire was alive? Were they technically alive? Dopheld did say they reproduced and they required food… They didn’t seem to need to breathe, or if they did she was very subtle about it. Armitage decided to find a pale thin wrist in the mess of clothing, pushed back the black lace ruffled cuff of a shirt, and felt around for a pulse. Just when he was beginning to think there was none he sensed it, the weak uneven flutter just beneath his fingertips. Following the arm up he was able to determine where her head was, pushing away a fur-trimmed wool hood to reveal a gaunt face framed by tangled burnished gold hair. Somewhere in the castle he had seen her portrait and knew this was the face of that bright noblewoman on Death’s door.

Armitage ran his fingertips across one of her cheeks and her lips, cracked and almost blue, twitched. “Duchess, can you hear me? My lady?”

Eyes moved in their sunken sockets under her eyelids in random patterns before they opened to slivers. There was a vague unidentifiable noise. He combed her hair away from her face, the strands leaving imprints in places where they had been pressed into her flesh, which was cold to the touch. Armitage had expected that a starving vampire would be like a feral animal and drain him dry at the first smell of blood without regard to who it was but it seemed the stories were inaccurate.

It was difficult but Armitage managed to get into as much of a comfortable position that was possible. Carefully he pulled back the cuff of his linen shirt on his left arm and brought his exposed wrist to her lips. “I do not know if you only need some or all of it, but everyone is in danger and they need your help. Please.”

“He… forgot… me…” Her voice was a raspy croak that was a dagger to the heart but the feeling of her lips brushing the sensitive skin of his wrist had it fluttering back to life.

“I am sorry, I truly am, but _please_ , the only friends I have ever had are in dire need of your help. They _need_ you.” Armitage cradled her head with one hand, helping it tilt back to better allow the upcoming stream of blood run down her throat. “ _We_ need you.”

The Duchess’s eyes parted slightly more in surprise, giving him just a glimpse of blue eyes, but eventually, they slid closed again. He was about ready to open his wrist, to hell with her obstinance, but a chilled unsteady hand took his and he once again felt her lips on tender flesh. A cold wet tongue lapped at his pulse and for a moment Armitage thought he was being toyed with, like a cat batting around the mouse it had caught, until the surrounding area went pleasantly numb. A soft gasp found its way out past soft bow-shaped lips. There was just the slight sensation of pressure, but his green eyes had watched in rapt curious horror as her teeth opened his pale skin, red blood trickling out into her mouth, not letting a single drop be wasted. At first, he felt ill, seeing himself wounded and powerless to it, had demanded it, but the coiling of his stomach turned into a radiating tingle. As his blood slowly drained, he could sense himself feeling lighter and strangely warm. An arm gently pulled him against her, allowing him to go limp and relaxed.

Armitage had fully expected to be sucked dry and hoped they would have the opportunity to bury him close to his mother, for sentimental value. Maybe he would turn into a ghost too, or some other spirit. Instead, the tongue ran along the puncture wounds until they were closed. Armitage was unsure of how much time had passed, his body was incapable of comprehending such a thing as he laid in the arms of a lady vampire. He was uncertain if he was hearing his heartbeat or hers, but it was comforting. Fingers softly stroked his hair until he finally succumbed to heavy sleep.


	10. Love Everlasting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Posted: 2018-12-14, Revised: 2019-04-29

Armitage awoke in his bed, tucked snuggly underneath thick blankets and furs. Tired and weak, he struggled to sit up with the aid of some pillows. He pulled back the cuff of his shirt to inspect his wrist and found no marks, but he was absolutely certain that it wasn’t always the case. A quick look around gave him no clues, everything was as he’d last seen it. With as much energy as he could muster, he croaked, “Dopheld?”

A few seconds passed before the blue shimmer formed at the foot of the bed. “The first time is the most difficult, I still remember mine. You will be dis-”

“Where is she?” Armitage felt like a weight was pushing on his chest, his body was so heavy, and his head was filled with cobwebs.

“Master gathered everyone after she brought you to bed and spoke for some time before addressing the humans. Now she is in her study, I presume.” If he was capable of the necessary brainpower the bastard would have noted that the spirit seemed much happier and was possibly even shining more brightly.

“The humans are gone?”

The steward nodded. “After a great show of force, they were convinced that to continue their intentions would be disastrous and that everything would be taken care of in due time. Now, please, you need more rest. There will be food for you shortly.”

Armitage did not have the chance to argue, the ghost dissipated to haunt some other corner of the castle. This left him to sink further into the mattress and pillows and he had no choice but to fall back asleep. He awoke to the feeling of the surface beneath him bending under something’s weight. Through bleary eyes he saw Duchess Pritchard, looking quite cleaned up compared to before. She was turning something over in her hands. “I thought vampires could not touch silver.”

The ancient being managed a scoff that would have been a laugh if she wasn’t in a melancholic spiral. Her thumb traced the _‘A’_ on the locket Phasma had given him. “The lies we perpetuate to keep mortals in the dark.”

Without any prompting, a tray of food floated from the bedside table to Armitage’s lap. There was a fortifying stew, some warm bread, and a large mug of water. “I suppose I have quite a bit of blood to replace.”

“It has been many hours, you should have eaten by now,” the vampire’s voice was just as downtrodden as she appeared. “I wanted to show my appreciation.”

“It is strange, having the opportunity to be thanked for being food.” Armitage dipped a piece of the bread in the juice of the stew and chewed on it. Apparently, his hostess had nothing to say. “Who forgot about you?”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘he forgot me.’” Armitage wondered if vampires could cry.

“A dear friend. He forgot my birthday.” The Duchess put the necklace down on the bedding. “He gave me this, a long time ago.”

“Phasma gave it to me. Do you want it back?”

“I threw it in the lake because I was angry with him.” She stared at the chunk of silver with its scrollwork ‘A’ before pushing it away slightly with taps of her index finger. “You may keep it.”

“Are you certain?” Armitage was finally able to hold the warm bowl so his spoon had less distance to travel from stew to mouth.

“I was being childish and people have suffered for it.” Now the human was sure that, if vampires could weep, tears would be soon to fall. The energy in the air oscillated between anger and despair. “Dearest Dopheld has told me your story since I refused your life. You may remain here if you wish, or I am able to contact another household that might have need of someone like you. I have heard good things.”

He dragged his spoon along the inside of the bowl, scraping away the residue left there by the cooling stew broth. Armitage had never been given much of a choice in life; he never had a choice in who he was born to or how he was treated. Now he was asked something tremendous, something that would dictate the rest of his life. Finally, he had a choice.

“I wish to stay.”

Duchess Pritchard watched something out of the window, unresponsive for some time. Then she picked up the necklace, undid the clasp, and after seating herself closer to him she placed the silver chain around his neck. The sensation of her fingertips brushing his skin sent a wave of tingling warmth throughout his body, her proximity intoxicating. She ran the backs of her fingers over his cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I will leave you to regain your strength. I am honoured to have you in my home, Armitage Aventhal.”

His rudeness only stemmed from how breathless he was in the wake of hearing his name on her lips.

* * *

Armitage’s balance and strength had returned enough for him to once again wander the castle with only a few instances of awkward footing. He thought he might haunt his favourite spots in the library, but when he came upon the main hall it appeared that there were more pressing matters.

There was a man he didn’t recognize, someone who was against all odds made out of pure muscle and seething anger, his hair a curly black mass. He practically towered over everyone else in the room in both stature and attitude. A coward, the redhead chose to protect his newfound freedom by staying on the landing of the stairway to watch. Shouting was occurring, muffled where it overlapped and bounced off the walls, giving life to a hundred voices without bodies.

One could have heard a pin drop. The noise had been sucked out of the room as every breath was held.

It stood to reason that the man was Prince Ben.

Ben was now no longer standing, but dangling by his throat. If Armitage had been with the others, he would have seen rivulets of blood running down the man’s neck where the Duchess’s nails dug into flesh.

“Foolish boy,” her voice boomed throughout the hall. There was no echo, a hollow ring where it would have been. “I save you from a feral and rabid fate and this is how you repay me? By ruining the balance we have struck with the humans?”

“If you had not been moping-” there was a wet and tortured sound where her grip on his larynx tightened.

“Insolent whelp!” Armitage could practically hear the spit flick off of her fangs. “I kill the creature that turned you, that would have had you for a mindless _slave_ , I allow you to roam my land so you might escape your Queen Mother’s eyes and play family with your _asinine_ sorcerer dragon of a grandfather. I stand between you and death. You exist by _my_ wish.”

The redheaded bastard had heard words not unlike those before. He began to rethink his earlier choice.

“Then my wish is that you rot in hell, _leech_.”

Ben was not so smug when the full weight of his body met the hard granite of a wall. Dust fell from the high ceilings, the glass of the windows rattled, the crystals of the grand chandeliers tinkled, and the hangings on the wall threatened to tumble from their fastenings. Small pieces of stone cracked away and pitted off the werewolf’s clothing. “You will return to Alderaan.”

The prince slowly rose to his feet. Hair bristled all over his skin. There was a snarl in the air. “I will see Alderaan _burn_.”

The wolfish creature charged at the vampire. With the flick of a wrist, its bulk once again slammed into the castle walls. It hit with such force that the whole building seemed to move under Armitage’s feet and he felt himself pitch forward.

“Let us not lose you so quickly, little mouse.” A firm grip around his waist carried him back to his feet, a hand lingering as he regained his balance. The touch was electric, his quickened heartbeat pulsing through every speck of his existence. He stood on the stairway in stunned silence, a swirl of wool and fur announcing the Duchess’s departure.

The Hunters proved their worth in finally containing the rage-filled beast that was Prince Ben, though of course, the beating he received had eased the process. Armitage carefully made his way towards the people he’d come to think of as friends and family. They all watched as Master Skywalker, Apprentice Rey, and Captain Dameron hauled the unconscious and bound form of the werewolf heir through the monolithic front doors.

“What will become of him?” It had seemed prudent to open the floor to discussion so that concerns could be aired. He was, however, not expecting the little witch to grab his arm for comfort.

“Queen Organa is a very powerful sorceress… Maybe she and Master Luke can help find a cure for the curse. Many powerful people owe them favours.” The apparently-young woman sniffled and Armitage offered her his handkerchief.

“Otherwise, they might have to chain him up somewhere,” Finn said as Rose wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Or execute him as a feral, if he cannot learn to school his temper.” Dopheld was a few feet away, using his magic to clean up the mess left behind by the small skirmish.

“The Duchess has helped that family quite a bit, has she not?” Armitage marvelled.

“Only Benjamin.” The sudden appearance of the woman in question startled them all, an almost synchronous jump pushing the group back a step. “Snoke was a very old and powerful werewolf. I risked my life to defeat him. If I had not, the prince would have had a far worse fate than his mother’s fury.”

“There was something about the dragon?” Armitage felt like a fool, the only person left out of the loop. He would have to start a knitting circle. The image was amusing, a ghoul, witch, ghost, and human all sitting around a warm fire needling yarn into blankets. Phasma would probably be sitting in a bucket with a bundle of reeds for more baskets.

“The sorcerer Anakin was turned in an attempt to seize a power Emperor Palpatine promised him. At least he was able to cast that darkness out of the world.” Duchess Pritchard cleaned the werewolf’s blood from her nails as if it was dirt from gardening. “My father allowed him to roost in our mountains. Plenty to eat and do. Pick fights with rocs, that sort of thing.”

“Seems I have more reading to do.”

She raised a dark eyebrow that brought heat to the human’s face. “I hate to think of what embarrassing stories you will come across that I have forgotten in my long life.”

“You do not look a day over ten thousand.”

“ _Please_ ,” Finn emphasized, “stop flirting.”

Rose giggled and pinched Armitage’s arm. “He’s just jealous because ghouls don’t keep all the fun activities.”

If Armitage wasn’t scandalized before, he certainly was now.

* * *

The humans had left Castle Finndale behind and returned to preparing themselves for the upcoming winter. Many of the creatures who had found refuge there wandered back out into the world as they regained their confidence in their safety. For those that had lost their homes, they had settled in for the season.

Armitage had the distinct feeling this was how a family functioned. He felt secure and should he need help it was found easily. Meals with the Magical Folk and more human-like monsters were pleasant and oftentimes there were opportunities to share happy moments playing cards or exchanging stories. There were even a few days where he and Rose scoured the library for relevant material and designed her new home to be made in the spring. He had promised to help, even if it was just carrying things here and there.

The silver necklace still hung around his neck, hidden underneath his shirts. It didn’t feel right taking it off, there was something very special in the way it had come to him. He wondered if he would ever meet the person it had originally come from. One thing was for sure, the ghost was right; being food wasn’t all that terrible after all.

For once Armitage was precious. Every touch was gentle, every whim was indulged. He looked forward to when that noble tongue would find his throat or wrist, the pleasant weightlessness as his blood left him. Not only was the experience remarkable, but afterwards he laid in bliss with his body wrapped around hers, the steady beat of her heart lulling him into a restful slumber. Some nights they would lay tangled even if she hadn’t come to him for a meal, and as he soaked in her scent as she bathed in his warmth.

In spring they built Rose’s cottage. Then came Finn’s shelter in the graveyard and replacing the headstones that had been toppled. A few others needed help, but a vampire’s magic and strength made quick work of such tasks. When all was put to right, Armitage was left to go back to his old habits. He was sitting in his favourite windowsill reading yet another book with a cup of tea when the click of bootheels caught his attention. There was only one other corporeal being still inside the castle other than himself.

“Madam.” He made to stand out of respect, a habit that was proving hard to break, but a motion of her hand had him relaxing.

“When it is less disruptive to your activities, I wish you to accompany me somewhere.”

Armitage hadn’t left the castle since Rose dyed his hair and he’d made the journey to Acht-To. “Of course, but whatever for?”

“There is one last matter I wish to settle with Arkanis and it requires your presence, darling.” The endearment had slipped off her tongue without her notice, or she had simply schooled herself to say it without confusion.

“Is that wise?” Armitage wasn’t quite sure what he should call her if they were on a pet name basis. Dopheld still called her Master and all types of official titles.

Aneirin lifted one eyebrow. “Who would harm you with me by your side?”

The redhead chuckled and looked away out of embarrassment. “Quite right.”

He didn’t know what this matter was until they were standing in the mayor’s office, a place Armitage had too many bad memories of. “You will pardon Armitage of the crime of murder and you will spread the word.”

The new mayor, who knew Armitage very well, looked between the two in confusion. “On whose authority?”

“Mine.”

“And you would be…?”

“Duchess Pritchard.”

The man went pale. “He killed my predecessor.”

“In self-defence. Also, you may blame last year’s unfortunate activities on your predecessor’s inability, or reluctance, to produce adequate sacrifices per my previous agreement with your land.”

The mayor had to give this some thought but eventually, he did become amenable to the fact that he could simply walk over the corpse of Brendol Hux and come out smelling like roses. “Is the agreement to be renewed?”

“In an act of goodwill and mercy, for now, my answer is no, but Arkanis and its fellows will remain under my guardianship.” Seeing the Duchess work was like watching a magnificent warship slide between the waves, easily parting the water and seemingly commanding the wind into its sails. The mayor nodded and Aneirin led her companion back into the carriage. She obviously had a flair for the dramatic, an all-black carriage drawn by skeletal horses was something out of a fairytale. Brendol would have died a second death if he’d seen his bastard son climb into it like some royal consort.

Inside the vampire leaned back her head and closed her eyes as if to nap. The carriage began shaking as it rolled over the cobbles. “Now I can go wherever I wish.”

“After a reasonable time to allow for the news to fly, yes.”

“I do not have to stay cooped up in the castle.”

“Indeed.” There was something almost melancholic in her voice. Armitage’s heart clenched.

“But only to visit other places.”

“However long as you like.”

The little mouse bit his lip. “We could… go together.”

A silence hung in the air where a response should have been.

“I would… like to see the world with you.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. “Would you want to, love?”

“Yes.” It was clipped if only to bite back the rise of emotion.

“I have… been thinking about something Dopheld talked to me about. When I asked him about your… relationship.”

“Oh?”

Armitage’s ears were burning almost as red as his hair. “About being turned.”

“You are still young, you need not worry about such things.”

“Of course.”

“You should take your time to really consider it. There is a lot to think about.” The Duchess crossed one leg over the other. “Many things have happened to you, one should let the dust settle.”

“I feel that… there are many things in this world I wish to do and there is not enough time in a human’s life to accomplish it. I know from the books that not all who were turned for love lived in bliss for time everlasting, but to have the opportunity to stand beside the one I love for eternity and not take it...” He took a breath and then a leap of faith. “What would you do, if I asked you?”

Armitage waited what felt like an eternity for a reply.

“I would grant your every wish, my sweet little rose.”


End file.
